


Of an Arcane Binding

by Salvia_G



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crossover, Fluff, M/M, Multiple Narrators, Somewhat Non-Chronological, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 44,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salvia_G/pseuds/Salvia_G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An inexplicable magic ties Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, to Thorin, dwarven prince of Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Illusion of Free Will](https://archiveofourown.org/works/678895) by [leopardwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopardwrites/pseuds/leopardwrites). 
  * Inspired by [The Time Traveller's Flatmate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/654551) by [orithea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea). 



> I owe more than the usual debts this time around: first, of course, must always be Tolkien, and second Peter Jackson: I do not think I need to say that what you recognize is theirs, and I do not profit from this work.
> 
> However, the inspiration for this story came from two different Sherlock(BBC)/Time Traveler's Wife crossovers: "The Time Traveller's Flatmate" by agameofscones(orithea) and "The Illusion of Free Will" by leopardwrites. Thank you to them as well, and to Chunsa for helping me find them again!
> 
> I have neither read _The Time Traveller's Wife_ nor seen the film, so my knowledge is based primarily on the wiki and these two fics; however, this fic is more inspired by the primary idea than a full-blown crossover.
> 
> Lastly, I relied heavily on www.tolkiengateway.net and also on www.lotr.wikia.com. 
> 
> Any mistakes or inaccuracies are my own, and I apologize in advance to those who are bothered by such things: I take some liberties with timelines and relationships and hobbit names; and I create at least one OC, but I believe they are essential to the story.
> 
> How is that for a disclaimer?

The first Ris noticed of the strange creature, he was hunched against the wall of the birthing room, eyes wide.  Then another contraction took her, and she forgot about the creature for the pain.  As the contraction left her, she remembered, and looked for him.  Did she suffer some delirium in childbirth?  Gruna had not seemed to see him; of course, the midwife was rather occupied between her legs.  The next wave overtook her, and Gruna encouraged her to push.  The babe was close now.  As she pushed, she met the eyes of the small thing.  He seemed a child: naked, with strange hairy feet and wide eyes.  She pushed, and she looked into the strange hallucination’s eyes, and in that way her first child, Thorin, was brought into the world.  Then the midwife turned to clean Thorin, and screamed; and Ris realized she was not hallucinating after all.

***

Bilbo’s first travel occurred when he was five years old.  He was in his bed, waiting for sleep, then he was in a dimly lit room, all rock, no windows, with a funny panting lady on the bed.  It was a funny dream, he thought; the lady on the bed had a beard like a man might, or a Harfoot!  Her stomach was huge, and at first Bilbo thought she was just fat, but then he remembered how Saradoc’s mother had got fat before the new baby came.  So maybe it wasn’t fat but a baby instead.  Saradoc said sometimes mamas did that:  got fat with a baby.  The other lady bustled about with the sheets and checking (in between the lady’s legs!) and didn’t see him, but the first lady did.  She didn’t say a word, though, just looked; and then she closed her eyes and groaned so loud. It was a bit scary, this dream, Bilbo thought.  And then the bustling lady was very busy and bossy, and the panting lady panted and groaned a lot more, and looked at him so he couldn’t look away but must look back, and then the bustling lady turned around with a small something in her hands.  She screamed when she saw him and she scared him; so Bilbo screamed too, a little. 

“Your highness,” she said as she backed away from him, “you must not move; I will hand you the babe and call for the guard.”

“He is hardly a threat, Gruna,” the panting lady said.  “Look at him; he is a naked child.  There is no need for a guard; I think we shall be able to defend ourselves if necessary.”  Even lying down on the bed, sweaty and trembling, she was like a queen in one of Mama’s stories.  The bossy lady had even called her ‘your highness!’  “Attend to _my_ babe, if you would.  But first, tell me:  prince or princess?”

The bossy lady swallowed.  She still looked scared of Bilbo, but she looked at the little thing (a baby, it _was_ a baby!) and said, “A prince, your highness.”

Her highness:  she had said it again!  This dream was interesting, Bilbo decided, not scary after all.

“Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” her highness said.  “Now clean him, and bring him to me.” 

Bilbo watched it all from his place against the wall.  The bossy lady bustled again with the baby, wrapped him up, and then brought him to the queen.  She looked just like a mama as she held him, even with the funny beard.  After a while she gestured to Bilbo.

“Come here, child,” she said.  He went to her bedside.  The baby looked squashed, and he told her so.

“But he is a prince, so maybe he will grow out of such a funny face,” he told her.  “Princes in mama’s stories are always handsome.”

The queen laughed.  “Where do you come from, strange creature?  Will not your mother miss you?”

Bilbo shook his head.  “No, because I am dreaming,” he told her.  “Ladies don’t have beards, only men and sometimes a Harfoot; though a Harfoot beard is never so thick as yours.”

“I am not sure you dream, little one,” the queen said.  “For then I dream as well, the same dream as you.”  Bilbo thought about that.

“It’s like magic,” he said.  “It really is like one of mama’s stories.”

“And while ladies where you are from may not have beards; I am a dwarf, and often our ladies do,” she said.  “I ask again:  where is it that you are from, and what are you?

Bilbo laughed.  “I’m a hobbit, from the Shire,” he said.  “There are dwarves in mama’s stories, sometimes; they all do have great beards!  But I never heard of a lady dwarf.”

The dwarf queen laughed too, a little tiredly.  “And I,” she said, “have never heard of a hobbit.”

And then, without any warning, Bilbo was back in his own room; and he would have thought it a dream after all, but he was naked on top of his covers, and his pajamas were neatly tucked in beneath the blanket.

***

 

Ris had dismissed the hobbit’s presence at Thorin’s birth from her mind.  She and Gruna had agreed that practical Thrain need not be bothered with news of the fae visit; and though she watched for a while, she did not see the hobbit again.  It was nearly two years later, and Ris was alone, nursing Thorin in his little room, when the hobbit came.  As before, he was nude; and he seemed not to have aged.  Ris had admitted to some curiosity about hobbits after Thorin’s birth; she had visited the Erebor library to read the journals of travelers to far away lands.  The Shire did exist; it lay near ancient Belegost in the Blue Mountains, and it was populated with a people called hobbits:  small but well-fed, with bare, hairy feet but no beards.  They must wear clothing though the child had not, else such a curiosity would have been written of.  It was a strange magic that had brought the young hobbit from so far away to her birthing bed; but it had not happened again, and Ris was not fanciful.  She did not worry about what did not occur.  But here he had appeared again. 

“Child,” she said.  “Hobbit.  You are back.”  He had been curled in a ball on the floor, but now he looked at her.

“It is my dream again,” he said.  “From last month.”

“It has been two years in the Lonely Mountain,” she replied.  Did time pass so differently in the Shire?  Nothing she had read had mentioned such a thing.  He stood, and looked at her diffidently.  He seemed unconcerned with his nudity; perhaps he was too young for body shyness.  “Tell me your name.”

“Bilbo Baggins, your highness,” he said, with a clumsy bow.  “At your service.”

***

 

The second time Bilbo travelled, he had been playing Frogs and Rocks with his cousins, and then he was not.  He had gone back to the dwarf queen.  She held her baby to her breast, rocking and cooing at him, as he gripped her beard tightly.  The baby was not a squashed-faced newborn any longer; but a fat and happy baby, the kind that could sit up and laughed when you played cuckoo with it.

“Child,” she called him, and asked his name, and he bowed like a knight.

“I never met a queen before,” he told her.  There weren’t any in the Shire.

She laughed.  “And you still have not,” she said.  “For I am not queen yet.  My husband’s father, Thror, is king of the dwarves in Erebor.”  Bilbo thought about that.

“Are you a princess, then?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Good,” he said, “Because I never met one of those either.”  He looked at her.  “You’re just like mama’s stories of a princess.”  She was, too; she wore such beautiful clothes that shone and sparkled, and a crown on her head.  He dared to step closer.

“The baby is bigger,” he said.

“It has been two years,” she said.

“He’s not squashed anymore,” he told her.  He thought she would be glad to know that.

She smiled, a little funny smile.  “Thank you,” she said.  “Would you like to see him closer?”  Bilbo nodded.

“You said he was a prince, too,” he remembered.

“Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” she said.

“That’s a nice name,” he told her.  She held the baby up so he faced Bilbo.  “Hello, Prince Thorin,” he said.  “What a big fellow you are!”  He was big, compared to hobbit babies.  He had blue eyes and dark curls on his head.

“Cuckoo!”  Bilbo said, covering his face with his hands, then peeking out between them.  Prince Thorin laughed and reached out to grab Bilbo’s hair.  He was strong; and when he pulled, it hurt!  The princess laughed again and helped pry Thorin’s hands away from Bilbo’s curls.

And then Bilbo was back in the Shire, sitting on top of his clothes, and all his cousins were staring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all Bilbo's visits are so short.

Bilbo supposed it was lucky the grown hobbits didn’t believe his cousins, because it was such a strange thing, to go pop and visit a dwarf princess and her baby; and he was sure his parents would keep him home and not let him play if they knew.  But they thought it was just some story the biggers told the littles.  Some of the other children whispered for a while, but they mostly stopped by Wedmath.  He was glad, because that fall he was to begin his lessons, so he would have less time to play.  He wanted to play and play in this, the last summer of littlehood for him.  And he _was_ lucky, for he travelled once again that summer; but he was in the tomato patch when it happened and mama and papa were over in the melons, so they could not see.

This time, the princess was not there.  As before, Bilbo’s clothes had stayed behind; even the tomato he was eating was gone.  He was in a dwarven bedroom, he supposed; it seemed old and dusty, but there was a dwarf sitting on a bed with his head in his hands.  His hair was long and dark with a little silver mixed in, and he had braids with beads in it.  Bilbo was disappointed to see that his beard was short.  The princess’ beard had been longer than that.

“Hello,” he said.  “Is the princess a queen now?”

The dwarf’s head shot out of his hands.  He was all shaky and crying.  Bilbo had not known grown ups cried, even grown up dwarves.

“Bilbo?” the dwarf said.  His voice was all scratchy and thick; from crying, Bilbo guessed. 

“I don’t know you,” Bilbo said.  “How do you know me?”

The dwarf laughed a funny crying sort of laugh.  “I have known you all my life,” he said.  “My name is Thorin.”  Bilbo moved closer, to touch the dwarf’s dark hair.

“Thorin?” he asked.  “The little baby?”  And the dwarf did have Thorin’s blue eyes.  “You are so big now,” Bilbo said.  Thorin reached out.

“May I?” he asked.  Bilbo nodded.

Thorin slowly gathered Bilbo into his arms; he held him tight and cried into his hair.  Bilbo was not sure what to do; but his mama always patted his back and sang, so he patted Thorin’s shoulders, where he could reach, and hummed.

“I’m sorry,” said Thorin.  “I’m so sorry.”

“It will be all right,” Bilbo said.

Thorin only shook his head, and held Bilbo until he popped back to the tomatoes.  Mama was mad that he had smashed one into his shirt, but how could he explain?

He did not know why Prince Thorin had been so sad, but he hoped he felt happier soon.  Bilbo liked going to visit the dwarves.

***

 

It was three years before he popped away again.  Bilbo had given up on doing it again, but one minute he was in his father’s study working on his letters and the next he was with the dwarves.  This time, he was in a large hall with many dwarves in it.  These were proper dwarves like from stories: stout, with long beards and helmets and axes.  They were fighting each other all in pairs.  Nearby a group of younger dwarves, perhaps his age, stood and watched the fighters; then an older dwarf came to demonstrate to them with his axe, and they all did the same as he had.  Bilbo did not see the queen or even any other female dwarves, so he looked for Thorin.  It was hard to see the adult dwarves’ faces with their helmets on.

But then the dwarf who had been teaching the biggers saw him and lowered his axe.  He had the oddest look on his face.  The biggers turned to look too; and though Bilbo had not been embarrassed before, he was embarrassed now, to have so many stare at him.  And without his clothes too!

“It is a hobbit,” said one of the biggers, a taller boy with blue eyes and dark hair curling to his shoulders.  Bilbo was not certain, but it seemed...

“Prince Thorin?” he asked.  The boy seemed surprised, but the dwarf teacher stepped in front of him with his axe in hand.

“What do you want with the prince?” he asked, his voice threatening.

“I just came to visit,” said Bilbo.  “May I borrow some clothes, please?”

And then the teacher bustled Bilbo away into a small room with weapons on the walls, and proceeded to ask Bilbo so many questions his head spun; but he did give him an enormous shirt to wear.  The teacher asked and asked Bilbo about how he got in and what he meant by visiting and what harm he meant the prince until Bilbo was crying.

“I wouldn’t hurt him,” he cried.  “I don’t know how I come and I can’t help it; I just pop here then pop back and I just want to see the princess.  Please!  She was so nice to me!”

The teacher leaned in; if possible, he seemed even angrier with Bilbo.  “When did you see the princess?”

“When Thorin was a baby,” Bilbo sniffed.  “I came twice then.”  The teacher stood up; he seemed to be a little less mad.

“The princess Ris,” he said.

“I do not know her name,” Bilbo said.  “Only she is Prince Thorin’s mama, and she was kind to me.”

The teacher opened the door.  All of the biggers were standing outside, talking; but they fell silent when they saw the teacher.  He gestured one of the biggers over.

“I have a message for the Princess Ris,” he said.  “Ask if I may attend her, should it please her highness.”  He paused and looked back at Bilbo.  “Tell her it is in regards to a hobbit.”

“Yes, Balin,” said the young dwarf, and he was running to a far door.

Now Prince Thorin spoke.  “Why should you send to my mother when the hobbit said he came to visit me?  And why should I not see him?  I am not scared of a hobbit.”  Of course not, Bilbo thought.  Who would be scared of a hobbit?  Certainly not a prince.

But the teacher—Balin—only looked stern and said, “Nevertheless, your highness; I should prefer to confirm the hobbit’s story with your mother.”  Thorin looked at Balin and then through the open door to where Bilbo sat sniffling at the table.  This was a very long time to have popped, he thought.  He wondered how much longer he would be here; only this was not fun at all.  He hoped he did get to see the princess before he left, though.

Prince Thorin still watched him.  Bilbo wiped his nose on his sleeve, for he did not have a handkerchief; and he was too scared to ask.

“How have you come?” Prince Thorin asked.  Bilbo realized the prince was asking him.

“Your highness,” Balin warned.  Prince Thorin gave him a look, and it must have been some look, because Balin subsided; though he still remained in the doorway between Bilbo and the dwarven prince.

“I don’t know how I do it,” Bilbo told the prince.  “It just happens.  I was studying; and I’ll be in trouble when I get back, because this time papa was there.”

“How can you not know how you do it?  Can you not control it at all?”  Prince Thorin seemed intrigued.  “Where do you come from?  The Shire?  My mother has read me stories of the hobbits of the Shire.  You do look just like one.”

But then the bigger who had run to see the princess was back.  He was out of breath from running, but he nodded; so Balin took Bilbo’s shoulder firmly and marched him out the door and across the long room.  All the biggers scattered in front of him; only Prince Thorin dared stay by his side.  Bilbo almost had to run to keep up with them.

“Your highness,” Balin said.

“I’m coming,” said the prince.  And it seemed that was all there was to it.  All along the way Prince Thorin asked him questions, and Bilbo tried to answer as best he could; but soon he was out of breath.  It was a long way they went, and Bilbo had to trot to keep up.

Finally they stood before a strong-looking wooden door.  Bilbo was very scared, and Balin’s grip on his shoulder was very tight.  Balin knocked on the door.  Another dwarf answered, a female, Bilbo thought, who nodded and opened the door wide. 

“Prince Thorin, your highness,” she said to Princess Ris, who was indeed seated on a low sofa by a fire.  “Balin, and—“ she looked down at Bilbo.  Balin whispered something in her ear.  “A hobbit,” she concluded.  And then they were in the room.

Prince Thorin crossed the room to his mother, bowing low to—he hit his forehead to hers!

“Hello dear,” she said.  “I hear there was some excitement at weapons practice today.”  She motioned the prince to sit, and then she extended her hand to Balin, who came closer to her but retained his painful grip on Bilbo’s shoulder.  “Balin.”

“Your highness,” he said, and bowed over her hand.

“And Bilbo,” she smiled at him.  “I have not seen you in some time.”

“No, your highness,” Bilbo said.  He tried a bow, but Balin would not let loose his shoulder. 

Bilbo thought he might cry again; but the princess saw, for she said, “Balin, release him, please.  He is a gentle creature and no threat to any of us.”  Balin seemed like he didn’t want to, but he let go of Bilbo’s shoulder.  Bilbo tried his bow again, with better success this time.  The other dwarf ladies in the room cooed at him, which made Bilbo scowl a little.  He wasn’t a baby, but they just cooed at him some more.  The princess seemed amused.

“You may leave,” she told the other ladies, who curtsied and then departed through another door.  One lady, the one who had answered the door, waited a moment longer, until the princess said, “Return so I may dress for dinner.”  Then they were all gone.  The princess turned to Balin; but he shook his head, and she said, “No, I see you will not go, Balin; very well, you may remain to guard me from this child.”

Bilbo bristled a little.  The princess smiled at him.

“I apologize, Bilbo,” she said.  “I see you have grown quite a bit since I have seen you.  And it has been long; twenty years at least!” 

Bilbo’s eyes grew wide.  That long?

“It has only been three years for me, your highness,” he said.  “It has really been so long here?”

“Indeed,” Princess Ris replied.  She gestured to the prince sitting next to her.  “You see Thorin before you, and he was a babe when you saw him last.”

Bilbo shook his head.  “No, that was the time before last,” he corrected.  “Last time he was all grown, and very sad, though he did not say why.”  He thought about it.  “He knew me, though.  He called me Bilbo.”

Prince Thorin looked to his mother.  “And he really comes and goes with no warning?” he asked.

“He came twice when you were a babe,” she answered.  “Once, at your birth, and once—oh, I think it neared your second birthday.  I have not seen him since.”  She turned to address Bilbo.  “And you say you have come once more to Thorin, though he was an adult?”

Bilbo nodded.  Princess Ris sat still for a while.  Then she stirred.

“And you have never gone to any other place, or other person, dwarf or other?” she asked.  He shook his head. 

“This is the longest you have ever stayed,” she said to Bilbo.  He nodded again, and she said, almost to herself, “And perhaps it is _not_ me to whom you are called.”  She turned to her son. 

“Thorin,” she said.  “I believe he is drawn to you.”  Bilbo looked at Princess Ris, then at Prince Thorin, who was looking back at him.  Prince Thorin looked as surprised as Bilbo felt.

And then Princess Ris turned to Balin, and she was brisk as he had never seen her. 

“Balin,” she said.  “I think it is time that my husband knew.  Send a page.”  And they argued quietly back and forth for a little while.  Bilbo heard a little of what they said, though he didn’t always understand:  “...duplicitous...” from Balin, and “...hardly nefarious...” from Princess Ris, and again from Balin, “...unfathomable purpose...” then “...benevolent...”  Prince Thorin gestured Bilbo to come closer, so Bilbo came to sit on the sofa.

“It is a strange magic,” the prince said.  “I had not thought hobbits were wizards.”

“We aren’t,” Bilbo said.  “I’m just funny this way.”  He lowered his voice.  “I don’t think any other hobbits do it; if they do, they keep it very secret.”  He thought for a moment.  “Papa really will be so mad when I get back,” he said.  “I have been gone a long time.”

“Do you think it?” Prince Thorin asked.  “What my mother said; that you come just to me?”

Bilbo shrugged.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I don’t understand any of it, your highness.”

Prince Thorin waved that off.  “Don’t bother with that,” he said.  “My friends just call me Thorin.”  Bilbo felt his eyes go wide again.  He had never had such a surprising day.

“Are we friends?” he asked in a wondering voice.

“I think we must be,” Prince Thorin—Thorin!—answered.

***

Balin, Bilbo could tell, was unhappy when he was done arguing with Princess Ris to see that Thorin and Bilbo sat side by side, talking; but Princess Ris looked at them fondly.  Thorin was telling Bilbo about his weapons practice.  Thorin’s life seemed very different from Bilbo’s; it was fascinating to hear a real prince tell about his days.  It also seemed a lot more work than princes had to do in mama’s stories.

“The battle axe is traditional, of course,” Thorin was saying as the door opened again.  “But I prefer the sword,” he confided.

“Also a respected weapon,” came from the door.  An older dwarf stood there.  His hair was dark but his beard was graying, with an intricate pattern beaded into it.  On his head was a coronet.  He crossed to Princess Ris.  “My lady wife,” he said, and kissed her hand.  Thorin rolled his eyes at Bilbo, and Bilbo giggled quietly.  Then Prince Thrain, for it must be Prince Thrain, came to the sofa.  “Thorin,” he said, and now his voice sounded stern, “present your friend.”

Thorin became very serious suddenly, standing and pulling Bilbo to his feet as well.  “Father,” he said, “may I present Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire.”  Prince Thrain turned to Bilbo, who tripped over himself trying to bow, and squeaked as he said, “At your service, Sire.”

Prince Thrain’s mouth quirked, a bit, and next to him Thorin seemed to relax.  And then Prince Thrain sat down in the chair opposite Bilbo and said, “So.  Who will explain?”  And Bilbo giggled again, a little, to see all the dwarves look at each other like a game of Not It.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is introduced to Thorin's family and to Erebor.

In the end it was Princess Ris who told the story, and then Balin and Thorin added their parts.  Bilbo tried to listen quietly and not fidget, but surely it was time for tea?  Finally he could wait no longer, and he tugged on Thorin’s tunic.

“Thorin,” he hissed, “When will we have tea?”

“Tea?” Thorin asked.  “With breakfast?”

“We won’t eat ‘till breakfast!” Bilbo wailed.  “Oh, I hope I pop home soon!”

Thorin looked hurt.  “Don’t say that!” he said.  “Don’t you want to stay?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo.  “But I’m so dreadfully hungry, and you said we shan’t have tea _or_ dinner.”  Now Thorin laughed.

“You are funny,” he said.  “But we can feed you.”  He turned to Princess Ris.  “Mother,” he said, “Bilbo is hungry.  May we have a tray sent from the kitchens?”

Princess Ris nodded, and Thorin went to the door to whisper to someone outside.  Not long after, a tray with food did arrive; there was no tea, but there was milk, and brown bread and mustard and two kinds of sausage, one soft and one hard, and pickles, and a cheese with holes that Bilbo had never had before.  Bilbo ate until he was full; it was different, but it was good.  When he was done, he looked up, and everyone was smiling.

“You can eat a lot,” Thorin said.  He sounded impressed.

“I was hungry,” Bilbo replied.

“And now that we are no longer remiss in our hospitality,” Prince Thrain said.  “We must discuss what to do, and what we shall tell the king.”  Everyone in the room went stiff. 

“Father,” said Thorin hesitantly, “may we not say that Bilbo is the son of a visiting diplomat?”  Prince Thrain raised an eyebrow.

“A diplomat who the king never sees?  A fine idea, Thorin; but it will not work,” he said.

“A merchant, then,” Thorin persisted.  This time it was Princess Ris who shook her head.

“Not appropriate to your station, Thorin,” she said, though her voice was sympathetic.

For a time they all sat in silence.  Then, Balin spoke.

“Let me train him,” he said.  “He will be one among many, and the king shall not notice.”

“If he does?” asked Prince Thrain, but he sounded encouraged.

“He is the son of a hobbit to whom I owe a debt,” Balin said.

“This may all be for naught,” Princess Ris said.  “We do not know how long Bilbo will be with us.”

“But we shall be prepared to care for him as long as that is,” said Prince Thrain.  Bilbo realized then that they expected him to stay for some time.

“But I will pop back soon,” he said.

“You may,” said Princess Ris gently.  “But you have already been here longer than you have before.  I think that perhaps this will be an extended visit, Bilbo.”

“I would like to visit,” Bilbo said.  “But I cannot make promises.”

“No,” Prince Thrain replied.  “No one could expect it of you.”  There was silence for a minute.

“Father,” Thorin said, “could we find him something else to wear?  He looks like he’s wearing an enormous baby’s dress.”

Bilbo bristled.  “I do not!” he said stoutly, but then he paused.  “Though I would not mind something else to wear.”

So Princess Ris called one of her ladies back, and gave instructions, and soon Bilbo had clothing much like that of the younger dwarves that he had seen.  It was still a bit big on him; but belted, it was a huge improvement on the loose shirt from before.  He would not wear the boots; for truly, they did not fit.  He spun around.

“And now I look like a dwarf!” he said.  Thorin laughed.

“Not exactly like a dwarf,” said Princess Ris.  “But closer than before.  Boots would help greatly.  We will see about finding some that fit.”  She smiled.  “Would you like to meet Thorin’s baby sister, Bilbo?  And Thorin’s brother Frerin will be at dinner.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, but Bilbo did want to meet her, so they went down a hall to the nursery Bilbo recognized from when Thorin had been a baby.  Thorin seemed bored, but he came along anyway.

“This is Dis, Bilbo,” said Princess Ris.  She had blond hair, like Princess Ris’s, and it stuck out in all directions.  She clapped to see him and tried to grab his nose, but Bilbo had a bit more experience with babies now, and he leaned back.

“Hello, Princess Dis,” he said.  “I will play cuckoo with you, but you must promise not to grab my nose or my hair.”  But though the baby princess squealed and tried to grab him, he played cuckoo with her anyway.  Soon enough, though, Thorin grabbed him by the hand and pulled him away.

“She’s so boring,” he said.  “Let’s go find Dwalin.”

“Who’s Dwalin?” Bilbo asked.

“Balin’s younger brother,” Thorin answered.  “Our age—well, my age—and my best sparring partner.  We can find you an axe!”  He stopped.  “How old are you, anyway?”

“Eight,” Bilbo said.

“Eight!”  Thorin exclaimed.  “Frerin is eight!  You’re practically a baby!”

Bilbo yanked his hand out of Thorin’s.  “I am not!” he said.  “I haven’t been a little for three years!”  Thorin seemed taken aback.

“A little?” he asked.

“A little,” Bilbo answered.  “A fauntling, before you start to learn your letters and such.”

“And you can read, and do sums, and study?” Thorin asked.  “You have begun your weapons training?”

“I can read and do maths and I study every day but Highday,” Bilbo answered.  “But we don’t train for weapons in the Shire, excepting only the bounders.”  He paused.  “I have a slingshot,” he said.

“A slingshot!” Thorin said.  “That’s not a weapon!”

“It’s enough to kill a rabbit,” Bilbo answered sturdily.  “And I may learn to use a bow next year, Papa says.”

“A bow is an elf’s weapon,” Thorin said, his tone disparaging.

“Mama’s stories have elves, too,” Bilbo said.  “As many as dwarves; and they are brave too.  I want to see elves someday.” 

Thorin rolled his eyes, but said, “You may see some when you are here; they come sometimes, to pay tribute to Grandfather.”

“I would like that,” Bilbo said.  “Dwarves and elves together!”  Thorin seemed mollified that dwarves came first in Bilbo’s mind.

“Perhaps you age differently than dwarves,” said Thorin, “as the men do, or the long-lived elves.  How long does a hobbit live?”

“Often to one hundred years, and perhaps a bit beyond,” said Bilbo.  “The Old Took, my grandfather, was one hundred and five when he died.”

“So short a span,” said Thorin quietly.

“How long do dwarves live?” asked Bilbo.

“Two hundred and fifty,” Thorin replied.

Bilbo gasped.  “So you are more than twenty and I am eight, but we are the same age,” he said.  Thorin was only quiet.

***

By the time they had found Thorin’s friend Dwalin, they did not have much time before they must return for dinner.  Still, Thorin insisted they try to find a ‘real weapon’ for Bilbo.  The three boys returned to the long room where Bilbo had first popped in this time, and to the little room with the weapons on the wall.  Dwalin looked askance at Bilbo’s small size.

“He’ll need a play axe,” he said.  “A proper axe, even one for training, will be too much for him.”

Thorin seemed offended on Bilbo’s behalf.  “A sword then,” he said; and then, looking at Bilbo, “or a bow.”  Dwalin nodded.

“A long knife might serve as a sword,” he said.  “And a child’s bow is still a bow, but there won’t be one here.  We may find the knife, though.”

Thorin nodded.  “A long knife, then,” he said, “and I will steal Frerin’s bow for Bilbo.  He never uses it anyway.”  Bilbo felt carried along by the entire discussion.  He was perhaps scared of an axe, but he had never thought to use a sword like a hero in a story.  A bow, yes; but not a sword.  And yet Thorin and Dwalin spoke of it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  They were inspecting a pile of knives leaning against the wall.  Finally, they choose three; and Thorin beckoned Bilbo over.

“Let us try for size,” he said.  “This one first.”  And he handed Bilbo one of the knives.

“What do I do?” asked Bilbo.

“Draw it out of the scabbard,” said Dwalin.  “Now stand straight and hold it down by your side.  You are right-handed?  Good.”  Bilbo did as he said.  “Now, hold it up in front of you, both hands on the pommel.  No, here; like this.”  He adjusted Bilbo’s hands.  “Bend your elbows.  Now step back a bit; yes, there is good; and swing.”  They repeated the process, and decided the first knife was the best fit for Bilbo.  They turned to find a belt for Bilbo to carry his knife and discovered Balin leaning in the doorway.  Dwalin and Thorin both drew up short, and Bilbo realized that perhaps they had been doing something that was forbidden; but Balin said nothing, only pulled a short belt off the wall by the door.

“It will have to be notched for him,” Balin said.  He looked at the young dwarves, a small smile on his face.  “You have learned your lessons well, it seems.  Now, Prince Thorin, I believe the Princess expects you in the small dining room; and Dwalin, we have dinner waiting as well.”

“Is it so late as that?” Thorin exclaimed, took the belt from Balin and pulled Bilbo out the door.  When Bilbo made to leave the knife behind, he scowled; so Bilbo kept it.  The passage they took seemed to curve and often they turned into another; Bilbo thought he might never learn the ways the dwarves went about the mountain.  But after a while, they came to a door, and Thorin came to a halt.  He straightened his hair and his clothes, and inspected Bilbo.  He tried to make Bilbo’s hair come to some order, but of course it would not.  Mama never succeeded either.  Then Thorin opened the door, and preceded Bilbo into the room.

It was the finest room Bilbo had ever seen, with brilliantly colored tapestries on the walls and what appeared to be gold plates on the table.  All Thorin’s family had gathered already, including a younger dwarf that Bilbo guessed was Frerin.  Even baby Dis was there.  Prince Thrain seemed to be displeased with Thorin; at least, he gave Thorin a _very_ stern look as they came in.  Princess Ris nodded to the servants who stood against the wall as Thorin and Bilbo were seated, and they began to bring food to the table to choose from.

“What brings you to the table late, eldest son?” Prince Thrain asked.  Thorin winced, but answered readily.

“We found a blade for Bilbo, Father; so he may begin training with us tomorrow,” he said.  “And Frerin, may Bilbo borrow your bow, to see if it is to his liking?”

“No!” said Frerin.  “It’s mine!”  Princess Ris gave Frerin that _look_ all mamas seemed to have.  Frerin slumped in his chair.  “I guess,” he said.  “But I want it back!  He can’t have it for good, Thorin!”

“’Course not,” said Thorin.  “Only to try, and then he shall have his own bow if he likes.”  Bilbo was impressed, but then Thorin ruined it.  “You never use it anyway,” he said. 

Frerin sat up indignantly and began to complain, as Thorin argued back right over what he was saying.  Even baby Dis began to yell.  Bilbo looked down at the table.  He supposed it was a little like eating at the Great Smials or Brandy Hall, only angrier, less simply loud.  But then Princess Ris set her hand down on the table, not loud, but firmly; and both young dwarves subsided, though Frerin still looked sullen and Thorin peeved.

“Look to your manners and to our guest,” she said.  “The both of you!  I am appalled, and poor Bilbo is uncomfortable.  Frerin:  thank you; Bilbo shall borrow your bow on the morrow.”  He seemed about to argue, but she raised her hand and he closed his mouth.  She turned to Thorin.  “And Thorin:  Frerin _will_ have his bow back; but should Bilbo find archery to his liking, a bow shall be found for him.”  Thorin nodded.  “Now:  Bilbo, I can see that you have neither brothers nor sisters.  Will you tell us of your family?”

Bilbo nodded. “Yes, your highness,” he said.  “But how did you know I had no brothers or sisters?” 

She smiled at him, and then at her children.  “Let us just say that you seemed unused to dining with such hooliganism.” 

So Bilbo told her of mama and papa and all the Took and Baggins cousins, of living at Bag End, of what he studied and the garden and the neighbors and Hobbiton and all about the Shire until he realized he had talked the whole dinner through.  Prince Thrain and Princess Ris had seemed interested, however, and Thorin, and even, almost reluctantly, Frerin.  Dis had only thrown food on the ground and smushed it into her hair and face.  “It is very different from here, I think,” he concluded.  “But it is home.”

“It sounds a lovely place indeed,” replied the Princess.  “Perhaps we shall retire to the sitting room?  After Dis has her bath, of course.”  And though her dress was so elegant and jeweled all over, she took the baby princess from her chair herself and led the way from the room, though she did wipe her off as best she could beforehand.  They went to the same sitting room as before; but when Princess Ris continued through another door with baby Dis, the rest of them stayed and sat.  Thorin pulled Bilbo away from Frerin and sat on the sofa so that Bilbo was stuffed against the arm and Thorin was between him and Frerin.  Prince Thrain took off his coronet and lit a pipe.

“I am glad to be pulled away from the court for such an adventure,” he said.  “Bilbo, I hope you shall be with us for some time.”

“I do too,” Bilbo replied.  “Only I am worried about what my mama and papa will think.”

“Yes,” Prince Thrain said.  “Perhaps something may be done there.  If you will write a letter this evening, the message may go out on the morrow with a raven.  I must warn you, it will take some time to reach the Shire; and something may go awry; but we shall do what we can.”  He shook his head and took a deep pull on his pipe.  “I cannot imagine what your parents are going through; if it were one of our boys, disappeared in front of my eyes... I should think I was going mad and be frantic for his return at the same time.”  Bilbo hung his head a little, until Thorin bumped his shoulder.

“Take cheer where you can,” he said.  “For you are friends with the prince of dwarves, heir to the throne of Erebor!”  Prince Thrain laughed, and Frerin groaned; but Bilbo was cheered, a little; and until he popped home there was nothing else to do but write a letter.  Thorin showed him to a desk against one wall and then read over his shoulder all the while he wrote, but Bilbo did not mind; except he did not know how to explain to his parents about the popping.

Princess Ris returned after a while, but without baby Dis.  She thought writing to Bilbo’s parents a good idea, and said that she would write to them as well; for a raven could take two letters as easily as one, and perhaps it might help to know that Bilbo was under a mother’s care, even if it was not his own mother.  And then shortly thereafter Frerin and Thorin and Bilbo were sent off to bed.  Bilbo was in a room nearby to Thorin’s; bedclothes were laid out for him on a rather large bed, and a small fire chased away the chill of the stone walls.  After Bilbo had climbed into his bed, he cried a little for his mama; but he did not pop home, and eventually he fell asleep there, in a small bedroom of the royal suite, in the dwarven city of Erebor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's adventure in Erebor continues.

The next morning it seemed more of an adventure again.  Bilbo stayed in the comfortable bed while a servant came to build up the fire, and soon after Thorin came bursting into his room.

“Good!” he exclaimed.  “Still here!  Come; dress! Dress!”  So Bilbo was hustled out of his bed and into his clothes and back out to the room where they had dined last night.  A breakfast was laid out on a table against the wall, boiled eggs and sliced meat and cheese, butter and jam and rolls with seeds, and a big bowl of many different kinds of berries, with another bowl of a thick white sauce next to it.  Bilbo took some of everything to the table.  Thorin watched him.

“Hobbits eat well, for being so little,” he said.  At first Bilbo was offended, but then he laughed.  It was a little funny, he supposed.

“I thought you dwarves ate a lot,” he said.  “At dinner yesterday.”

“Yes,” Thorin said.  “But we’re dwarves.”  And they chattered together as the rest of the family filtered into the room.  After breakfast, Prince Thrain excused himself, and Princess Ris explained to Bilbo what would happen that day.

“Thorin will study with his tutor in the morning,” she said, “and you may go or not as you choose, though I think you should not neglect your studies entirely.”  She smiled.  “After luncheon you will go to the training grounds for the vaunted weapons practice; and then, as yesterday, retire to the family for dinner.”

Bilbo nodded.  “I should like to go with Thorin to study this morning,” he said.  “I don’t know what else I would do.”

“Of course,” Thorin said.  “What shall Groin say when he sees a hobbit joins us?”

“But you must not tell him how you have come to be among us,” Princess Ris warned.  “As few should know that as possible.”

Thorin’s tutor had a long red beard divided into three braids.  He certainly seemed surprised by Bilbo, and wanted to ask him many questions; but then realised he must teach them this morning.  He set Thorin to work on a complicated dwarven history, and then tested Bilbo for what seemed hours to learn what he already knew.  That seemed to be:  adequate maths, excellent reading and writing, abysmal history, and no languages at all but Westron.  Groin seemed a little appalled, but Thorin protested.

“I imagine he could tell you the history of the Shire,” he said.  “And he could not learn Khuzdul.”  He paused.  “Could he?  Or Iglishmêk?”

“Certainly not!” Groin sputtered.  “But perhaps he might learn to read Sindarin.  And he can learn a proper history of the dwarves now.”

Bilbo was excited at the thought of learning the elves’ language, less so at more history; but Groin seemed certain, so Bilbo resigned himself.  He was given a history primer (he feared it might be meant for first year students, but he supposed that was what he was, here) and settled to read.  Dwarven history, he soon learned, was not at all like the history of the Shire.  There were kingdoms, and treaties with men and elves, and great battles with orcs, and in general it was far more like mama’s tales than like history.  Bilbo even thought he recognized some of the names, though the stories were not exactly the same.  When it was time to go, Groin quizzed him a little, and seemed faintly satisfied; but he asked Thorin much more difficult questions and was much harder on him.  Hesitantly, Bilbo asked Thorin about it.

“He’s hard on me because I will be king one day,” he said.  “I must know this, that I might be a wise and just king.  And,” he continued, “he did go easy on you, but it was your first day.  Wait until tomorrow.”  They walked in silence for a while before Bilbo asked the question that had been bothering him most of the morning.

“Do dwarves not eat second breakfast?  Or elevenses?”  Thorin seemed not to know what either was, so Bilbo explained about hobbit meals, and Thorin laughed at him.

“So you have been starving all morning!” he exclaimed.  “Tomorrow we will put rolls in our pockets.”

And then, after luncheon, it was weapons training.

This was clearly Thorin’s favorite part of his day, and it seemed he excelled.  He and Dwalin were often set to spar together when the young dwarves did, and they were much better than any of the other dwarves.  Bilbo, of course, did not know what to do.  Balin had found a small axe for him, and some of the dwarves snickered to see its size until Thorin glared at them.  He mimicked the movements with axe and sword, but both seemed very heavy to Bilbo after only a short time.  His arms ached, and he could not keep up with the other boys.  It seemed forever before they took a break.  Thorin seemed not to know what to say to him.  Bilbo thought Thorin must think that Bilbo was hopeless and was disappointed in him, but then he leaned in and whispered, “It gets better,” and Bilbo was cheered, a little.  Then several of the dwarven warriors joined them, and the other boys divided up to spar under their supervision.  Balin tilted his head at Bilbo.

“All right, halfling,” he said.  “You’re with me.”  He produced a bow and quiver of arrows from somewhere.  “Have you ever used a bow before?” he asked.

“No,” Bilbo said.  “Only a slingshot, though Thorin said that is not a weapon.”  Balin went to the little weapons room then, and came back.  He signaled Bilbo to follow him.  They began to walk out a door Bilbo had not noticed before, a passage that led up and up.

“Well, lad, Thorin is not always right.  In the right hands, a slingshot can be a warrior’s weapon,” Balin told him.  “We’ll see what you can do.”  Eventually, they came to an enormous room out of which led a gate so large Bilbo could barely see the top, and then they were out through the gate and on the mountain.  Bilbo stared and stared, and felt himself doing it, but he could not stop.  He had never seen anything like it.  Balin seemed amused and proud.

“Welcome to Erebor,” he said.  “This is the way most come.”  The road into the gate held dwarves, but also men, and as Thorin had promised, elves.  It was busy, but dwarves especially moved out of Balin’s way; so though Bilbo felt very small he was not stepped on.  After a while, a path veered off the road, and Balin took it.  They followed the path through the forest and across alpine meadow until they reached a large clearing where some archery targets had been set up.

“First, the slingshot,” Balin said.  He took one out of his pocket.  “Find yourself some stones.”  Bilbo looked.  After he had as many as he could carry, he returned to Balin, who handed him the slingshot and pointed at the targets.  “Well?” he said.  So Bilbo tried.  He was a bit disappointed in his first few tries, but then he grew accustomed to the sling and did better.  When he finished, he looked hopefully at Balin, who nodded.

“As I said, a weapon in the right hands,” he said.  “Let’s see what you do with a bow.”  The bow was harder though; the string was hard to pull back and hold with his tired arms, and at first he snapped the string against his arm when he let go, which hurt quite a bit.  But though it was quite different, he could see the ways that it was like a slingshot as well.  He knew how to aim, though his arrows did not go far.  Balin seemed satisfied with his progress, calling him lad again, and talking to him about how he might improve with his weapons in the days to come.

“But don’t let Thorin push you too far,” he cautioned.  “That one can be unstoppable when he has an idea in his head, and it’s clear he wants you to succeed in this.  You must go at your own pace, lest you injure yourself.”

Indeed, as they returned to the training grounds, Thorin immediately left where he had been working with Dwalin to meet Balin and Bilbo.

“And?” he demanded.  Balin raised an eyebrow.  “I report to your father, laddie, and to the king,” he said.  “Not to you.”  And then Balin dismissed the boys for the day, and left the room.

“Not yet!” Thorin yelled after him with a grin.  Then he turned to Bilbo, and gestured to Dwalin to join them.  “How was it?” he asked.  Dwalin smiled. 

“It went well,” he said.

“How do you know?” Thorin asked.  Dwalin pointed to Bilbo’s hands, which still held the bow and quiver.  Thorin grinned again.  “So much for Frerin getting it back,” he said, and turned to Bilbo.  “Now we just need to work on your axe work.  And your sword work.”  Bilbo groaned.

“No more today,” he moaned.  “Isn’t it dinner time?”  Thorin laughed, then clapped Dwalin on the shoulder, which seemed to mean they were done, for next he led Bilbo from the room.  He was much cheered from his worry before, and he teased Bilbo all the way back to their rooms about missing hobbit meals.

Weeks went by.  This remained the pattern of Bilbo’s days:  breakfast with Thorin, study with Thorin and his tutor in the morning, luncheon with Thorin, learn the axe and sword with Thorin and Balin, though only Bilbo received instruction in archery, dinner with Thorin and his family.  In the whirl of Thorin’s busy life and vibrant personality, Bilbo hardly had time to miss his family during the day; but he very much did at night.  Often he cried himself to sleep.  They had not heard back from the raven, and after a month, sent another; but Bilbo fretted over what his mama would think, and missed his parents dreadfully.

He had never had a friend like Thorin, however; only run around in groups of fauntlings.  He had never had one friend just for him before.  He knew he would miss Thorin when he returned to the Shire almost as much as he missed his parents now.  Thorin, he thought, would feel the same.  At first he had thought that Dwalin was Thorin’s good friend, and they were friends; but there seemed to be a space that separated them because of Thorin’s rank.  They were both conscious of it.  Bilbo, on the other hand, had popped right into Thorin’s family and been accepted; he seemed to be outside the hierarchy of dwarven society.  And Thorin, he thought, had been starved for an equal.

Still time passed, until Bilbo had lived in Erebor for six months.  His muscles had grown strong from his training, though Balin had after four months told Bilbo to give up the axe to concentrate on sword work and archery.  Groin seemed impressed with his progress in Sindarin, but pressed him constantly to learn his dwarven history faster.  Bilbo thought he wanted him to catch Thorin if he could.

Bilbo had grown quite fond of baby Dis, and even liked Frerin, though Thorin found him annoying, and Prince Thrain and Princess Ris had welcomed him into their family as if he were their own.  He learned some of why one evening, as the princes had gone to attend the king, and only Princess Ris and he remained.

“Your destiny and Thorin’s are tied somehow, we think,” she said.  “And we would have you and he ready to face whatever fate holds for you.”  She paused, quiet as she often was while thinking.  “I can only think it a good thing, that he have such a good friend as you have been to him.”

The next morning while he was dressing for breakfast, he popped; and then he was back in his father’s study, naked again, his clothes beneath him piled in the chair.  His father stood before him with a look of _such_ astonishment on his face.

“Bilbo,” he said.  “What just happened?”  Bilbo grimaced.  His parents would not be happy with him.

“May I dress first, Papa?” he asked.  “Only it’s rather cold like this.”  Papa nodded, then rushed over and hugged Bilbo.

“I thought you gone,” he said.  “I looked up, and you were not there though your clothes were, but before two minutes passed you were back again.”

“I popped,” said Bilbo.  “Please, Papa, may I dress?”  But Papa would not let him go, only hugged him and murmured, “Bilbo, Bilbo.”

One hundred-fifty years before and halfway across Middle Earth, a young dwarf sat disconsolately on his friend’s bed, looking at the pile of empty clothes on the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's turn to tell of Bilbo's next visit.

It was eight years later for Thorin when Bilbo came again.  He was older, an adult; and he appeared right in the middle of his lesson with Groin.  Groin was shocked, of course; but Thorin laughed and laughed until Groin sent him away.  He sent a page for clothes and ran himself to tell his mother:  Bilbo had returned. 

“Truly, he comes when you have decided he comes no more,” his mother said as they hurried to the schoolroom.  “This is our lesson:  he may go, but he shall always come back.”  She paused to catch her breath outside the door, but Thorin could not wait and pushed it open.  The page had been quick with the clothes; Bilbo was dressing, and he seemed embarrassed to see Mother while only partially clothed.  Thorin hoped Bilbo was not boring now that he was an adult; but he could see the scars of what looked like claws on his shoulder, so he thought it unlikely.  Mother had turned away to give Bilbo privacy; but when he was dressed he cleared his throat and said, “Your highness.”  He turned to Thorin and smiled, a smile just for Thorin.  “Thorin.  It’s good to be back.” 

“Bilbo,” Mother said and pulled him into a hug, and Thorin knocked his forehead.  He seemed a bit dizzy after that.

Lessons were obviously over, so Groin departed for the day.  Thorin and Mother took Bilbo to the sitting room.

“I warn you now,” he said.  “This is only a short visit, though I will be back soon.”

“How do you know?” Thorin asked.  “You couldn’t predict before, when you came, when you would come or go.”

“Because you told me then,” Bilbo said with a smile.  “I was younger.”

“Younger,” Mama breathed.  It was fascinating, all of it!  Thorin looked at Bilbo.  He could see his younger self in the bones of this adult face, but his mobile face was leaner, and Bilbo’s little potbelly was gone.  He seemed rather thin, in fact, for a hobbit; Thorin had learned all he could about hobbits since Bilbo had left, and apparently they mostly were rather plump; the way Bilbo had been as a child.  But Bilbo now seemed wiry and rather underfed.  Still his eyes were bright and his hair curly.

Bilbo smiled at Thorin and knocked his shoulder. 

“I am so glad to see my good friend again.  But please, Thorin, let me speak to your mother alone for a moment.”  But they never learned what he wanted to say, for then he was gone.

Exactly one week later, he was back, but this time he was younger, sixteen, he said.  He seemed to think this made him older than Thorin’s thirty-two years, but Thorin disagreed; and they had their first real fight about it.  Bilbo couldn’t stay mad, though; not like a dwarf could, so he forgave Thorin, even though neither would admit they were wrong.

When Thorin told Bilbo that his older self had visited before for such a short time, and wanted to talk to Mother, Bilbo sighed.

“I don’t know what I could want to tell your mother,” he said.  “It must be something I learn when I’m older.”  He shrugged.  “Probably only adults would care, and that’s why I wanted—will want—this is confusing.  Wanted you to leave the room.”

“It’s just so frustrating,” moaned Thorin.  “You’re right here, and you don’t know what you wanted to say last week!”

Bilbo sat up straight.  “I know; we’ll go to the training fields and you can show off.  You always liked that.”  Thorin punched him in the shoulder (he crowed a bit inside to notice Bilbo winced); but it was a good idea, so they went.  Along the way, they picked up Dwalin so they could spar.

Dwalin greeted Bilbo with a huge smash to the forehead, and Bilbo went down in a heap.  He didn’t seem to understand that it was a great compliment, meant only for family and the best of friends; but it was true that a large knot did seem to be forming on his head where Dwalin had hit him.  He sat happily enough, though, to watch Thorin and Dwalin spar; and while as usual Dwalin bested Thorin with the axe, he showed his prowess with a sword very well.

“And have you practiced your archery?” Thorin asked to be polite, for he knew well that the Shire was not a warlike place; but Bilbo said he had, and then Dwalin insisted he show them; so they had to find a bow and hike all the way to the Gate and out to the archery range, and all on such a chilly spring morning.  But when they arrived, and Bilbo took his shot with a small smile—oh!  He was better than any elf!  He could hit anything Thorin or Dwalin could find for him to shoot, and then there were ducks flying by high in the air, and he shot and hit one! two! three! just like that.

“Not so bad, laddie,” Thorin said, just the way Balin would; and then they were laughing just as they used to do.  Bilbo was funny and insisted they find the ducks to take to the kitchen, which neither Thorin nor Dwalin wanted to do; but then Bilbo reminded them that he would need his arrows back, and then they might as well take the ducks.  Though Thorin thought they might show Father Bilbo’s trophies and then give them to a servant to dispose of.  Dwalin said he would tell Balin to expect Bilbo in the afternoon, and they went to luncheon.

Dis did not remember Bilbo and was shy; but Frerin seemed to think that he and Bilbo had been the best of friends, so Thorin had to quickly disabuse him of the notion.  When he had a chance, he whispered, “Don’t bother Bilbo the way you used to, Frerin,” but Frerin was so immature he hit Thorin over the head with a plate.  Either way, it worked; for though Mother gave Thorin a look, she sent Frerin from the table.  It was bad enough having to share Bilbo with Mother and Father, for it was all the same speculation again about how Bilbo’s appearing and disappearing worked; and in addition the great mystery of what Bilbo had wanted to tell Mother last week.

“I am sorry to say, Bilbo,” Father said, “that it seems control will not come with age; for fully adult, you could not stay to finish your conversation.”

Bilbo nodded, and he seemed downcast.

“But it is not all bad news,” Mother said.  “For look how handsome you will grow to be!”  Bilbo blushed, and Father jokingly growled that he should be jealous, but Thorin realized:  Bilbo had been handsome.  Bilbo had always just looked like himself and Thorin had never thought of it; but he looked now, and he could see it.  When he grew into himself and out of his baby fat, Bilbo would be handsome, in his hobbit way.  Thorin felt a bit uncomfortable with the idea:  why should he care?  So he dismissed it from his mind; but it would not go, not entirely.

That afternoon when they went to weapons practice, Bilbo seemed happy to see Balin, and Balin, Bilbo.  Practice went well, with Thorin _almost_ taking Dwalin during the axe; and Balin motioned the three of them to stay when the rest were dismissed.

“Dwalin tells me you’ve some skill with the bow now,” Balin said.  Bilbo beamed.

“I have no one to practice my sword work with at home,” he said.  “But I can practice my archery.  Most folks just think I want to join the bounders.”  Balin raised his eyebrows.

“It’s like the Watch,” Thorin interjected.  Balin nodded.

“I have been thinking about the way you come and go,” he said.  “And it seems to me wise to take precautions, for someday this training you lads do will have a use.”  He nodded again, once, as if to himself.  “Thorin, Dwalin:  you will begin to carry with your gear some extra for Bilbo:  a long knife, and a bow and quiver.  Should he come to you in battle, you should be prepared.”  It was a good idea.  Thorin thought about what would happen if Bilbo appeared, nude and nothing with him, in the midst of a battle against the orcs.  They were all quiet for a bit then, and Bilbo was pale.  Then he took a deep breath.

“And perhaps a tunic,” he said.  “Lest I drive everyone from the field before the battle begins.”

“Might not be a bad thing,” Dwalin said, “if you could ensure only orcs would see your hairy hide!”  Thorin laughed at the thought.

“I’m afraid only my feet are hairy,” said Bilbo.

“I’ll vouch for that!” Thorin agreed.

The next day Groin must be taken into their confidence.  He had seen Bilbo appear twice now, at two different ages, and there was no waving that away as too much ale the night before.  He was remarkably phlegmatic regarding the entire story.

“I do not pretend to understand magic,” he said.  “It is the province of wizards and elves.  Dwarven magic is simply a part of who we are, what makes us stubborn and unchangeable as rock.  I would say this was hobbit magic, but you tell me Bilbo is the only hobbit known to do this.”  He thought for a moment.  “It is no reason to have neglected either your dwarven history or literature,” he told Bilbo.

“I have no books to study it in the Shire,” Bilbo protested.

“Then we shall work doubly hard now,” implacable Groin replied.  Bilbo groaned; but he did take to it with a will, especially the literature that Thorin found rather boring.

Soon it was as if Bilbo had never left, though Thorin thought that the adults treated him differently.  They seemed to want to shove everything they could into whatever time he had with them:  Groin, dwarven culture; Father and Mother, familial affection; and Balin, sword work.  Balin especially almost neglected the rest of Thorin’s training cohort, assigning lesser dwarves to train them, while he worked one to one with Bilbo.  Thorin also saw him teaching Bilbo things that Thorin did not need to know, like how to build a practice dummy or hang a sand bag to train his muscles.  He realised Balin was preparing Bilbo as best he could to continue his training alone when he returned to the Shire.  Balin pushed Bilbo hard; he was not unkind, but he was indomitable in his demands.  Bilbo was always red-faced and wobbly after a session with Balin, his sweaty curls clinging to his forehead.  He would bathe before dinner and then collapse on the sofa.

“Balin will be the death of me,” he moaned, his arms folded back over his face.  “When I pop back to the Shire, it will be as a corpse for my parents to bury.”  When Thorin laughed, he sat up and wiggled his finger at him.

“It’s true,” he said.  “Today he told me that he would speak to Groin about leaving off my study in the mornings so that I might have weapons practice all the day long!” 

Thorin laughed.  “Groin will not agree,” he comforted.  “Though I should like to see the fight.”  But that evening as the family sat after dinner, Bilbo disappeared.  Dis began to cry; and Thorin felt like it, though he would not in front of Father or Frerin.  That night as he went to bed, he did cry.  No matter how much he was wanted, Bilbo could never stay.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo brings a warning.

It seemed that the pattern of Bilbo’s coming and going had changed, however; they had thought there was no pattern, but it became apparent that he came far more often over the next decade.  Sometimes he was older, and sometimes younger.  Past a certain age, he always tried to talk to Father or Mother, but disappeared before he could.  Finally, Father stopped him.

“It is clear that whatever magic moves you will not allow you to speak of the future,” he said.  “We should rather have you with us than any warning you could give.”

Bilbo shook his head, and though an adult, he began to sob.  “I should rather warn you,” he said.  “I must try.”  But he subsided for a little, until he seemed to gather himself after dinner. 

Thorin felt himself seized by disappointment.  “Bilbo, no,” he said.

Bilbo looked back at him, then at Father.  “Flee—” he said, and then he was gone.

The next two times he came, Bilbo was what he called a ‘tween,’ coming into adulthood.  The promise of a handsome aspect was being fulfilled now, and Bilbo had an ease that Thorin envied as he entered his most awkward years.  Bilbo’s sword work remained only good enough, but his archery was unmatched by any in Erebor.  Though Father would not allow them to make the trip to the Greenwood to test his skill against the elves.

Then Bilbo came again as an adult, and as soon as he came face to face with Father, he said “Ere—” and was gone.  The next time, he managed the full “Erebor” before he was gone.  It took him five visits of “dr—“ until, holding his head and bleeding from the nose, he gasped out “dragon!” before he disappeared, leaving them all white-faced in his wake.  Father turned to Mother.

“You will pack tonight,” he said.  “Tomorrow at first light you, Frerin, and Dis leave for the Iron Hills.”

“But—“ Mother said.  Father grabbed her shoulders. 

“You heard him as well as I,” he said.  “You leave at first light!”  Mother nodded and went to her rooms.  Frerin protested too; but Father told him he must go to protect Mother and Dis, so he went to pack as well.  Finally Father turned to Thorin. 

“Go to Balin,” he said.  “We must discuss how to bring this news to the king.  I would have his advice.  Speak to no one else, even Dwalin.”

“What of Groin?” Thorin asked.  “He knows Bilbo as well, and can vouch for him to Grandfather.”

But Father shook his head.  “Not yet,” he said.  “Only Balin for now.”

***

If anyone stared to see Thorin running through the halls of Erebor, he neither noticed nor cared.  ‘ _Dragon_ ,’ ran continuously through his head:  ‘ _dragon, dragon, dragon_.’  He had a hard time putting off Dwalin, who wanted him to stay instead of going to some fusty conference between Balin and his father; but he said he must.  Balin seemed to understand the need for discretion, for he asked nothing on the way back to the royal suites, only hurried alongside Thorin.  Thorin thought his face must have given him away; he did not know how all who saw him could not read it on him:  _dragon, dragon, dragon_.  Finally they were there, and Thorin practically pushed Balin into the room.

“Balin,” Father began without preliminaries.  “What I say now you must not speak of to anyone until given leave.  You will give your word or you will leave now.”  Balin seemed a bit offended, but then he seemed to see something in Father’s face.

“The king?” he asked.

“When I give leave,” Father answered, his face grim.  Balin was silent for a moment.

“I swear on the stones of my ancestor’s graves,” he said slowly.  “I will say nothing without your leave.” 

Father nodded his thanks.  “Bilbo has come to us,” he said.  He began to pace as he did when he presented an argument to Grandfather.  “He has come many times over the past years, as an adult, only each visit was cut short.”

Balin frowned.  “He has not come to see me, ever, as an adult,” he said.  “So short a trip as that?”

“Minutes only,” Father answered.  “He has been trying to tell us something regarding our future, and tonight he succeeded.”  Father paused and closed his eyes.  When he spoke again, his voice broke.  “Balin,” he said.  “A dragon comes to Erebor.”

Balin staggered.  “When?” he asked.

“We do not know,” Father said.  “It has been all he could do to tell us this much.  We do not even know a year.  But I think it must be soon, for he has become more agitated as he has seen Thorin grow older.” 

Thorin started.  He had not noted it.  But now that he thought on it, “Father,” he said.  “When he last appeared, and you made him wait, to tell him of the discovery of the Arkenstone.  That was when—“ 

Father covered his face with his hands.  “Mahal,” he said, “What have we done?  We have cursed ourselves.”

“Still, we know,” said Balin.  “And that is far more than we had an hour ago.”  Father nodded.  “I must go to the king,” he said.  “Though I do not know what I will say, or how to explain this knowledge.  He will be hard to move.”

“And he must be convinced,” Balin said.

Thorin felt uncomfortable at the thought.  “Father,” he said.  “Of course Grandfather will listen to you.”  But Father shook his head.

“Thorin, you must think how it sounds,” he said.  “How do I know?  A hobbit has told me a dragon is coming.  Where is this hobbit?  Oh, he comes and goes; and he is gone presently.  Perhaps he shall return anon; perhaps not.”  He pursed his lips and looked carefully to Balin.  “We must prepare for the king not to listen.”

And Balin nodded.  Thorin was shocked.

“To keep it from him?” he asked, disbelieving.

“No,” Father answered.  “We shall not keep it from him.  I shall go to him on the morrow.  But whatever he says, Thorin, we prepare.”  Thorin sat.  He knew what it meant.  If Grandfather forbade any action, Father would disobey his king.

Balin spoke then.  “There will be action we may take that he will not think on and will not forbid,” he said.  “We must focus our weapons practice on our distance weapons:  spears, bows, cross bows.  If we can, we do not want to allow the dragon close enough for axes or swords.”

“Now is when we want Bilbo back,” Thorin said.  “He is better with his bow than any dwarf under the mountain.”

“You are right,” Balin agreed.

“But we cannot know when he will come,” Father added.  “Nevertheless, you shall go armed at all times, and Bilbo’s bow will be with you.”

“I will have all the warriors armed and armoured,” Balin said.  “And should the king note it, I will tell him we practice sudden drills, and the fighters must be prepared to muster at any time.”

They talked of strategy late into the night, of how to fortify and how to defend against a dragon.  Father ordered Thorin to begin organizing a quiet evacuation of the dwarven women and children from the mountain, some to the Iron Hills and some to the Greenwood.

“What of Dale?” Thorin asked.  “Could not the men host some of ours?”

But Father shook his head.  “After I have spoken to the king,” he said.  “I will go to Dale.  I fear their danger is as great as ours.  I will not send dwarves there.  Whether the men will choose to stay or to flee I know not, but I will tell them what we know.  They might be safer to come to the mountain than to remain so exposed, but that the dragon will be drawn here.”

“They have sworn allegiance,” Thorin said, “they and the elves.  They may evacuate their women and children as they wish, but their warriors should come to us, to defend the mountain.  At least we should send to the elves for their archers!”

“We will ask,” Father said.  “But they may not come.”

“On their honour they have sworn!” Thorin cried.

“Yes,” Father replied.  “But it is a not an army of orcs come to attack us all; it is a dragon come only to the mountain.  Dale is in danger only from its proximity, and the elves of the Greenwood not at all, I think.”

“They owe their allegiance to the King under the Mountain,” Thorin said obstinately.

“They do,” Father said.  “But Thranduil bears no great love for your grandfather for forcing it upon them.”  Thorin stilled.

“They did not swear willingly?” he asked.

“No,” Father replied.  “Only under the threat of war between elf and dwarf would they swear.  I believe Thranduil will take our refugees; I do not believe he will send any defense to the mountain.”

Balin cleared his throat.  “I must go,” he said.  “Whether the elves will come or not is beyond my ken; but early on the morrow I must convince our warriors to change their entire fighting strategy.  I may need to knock heads to do so; I will take what rest I can get.”

The next day, Thorin and Father bid farewell to Mother, Frerin and Dis.  Mother cried and hugged them tight, and kissed Father until it was embarrassing.  It was a week’s journey to the Iron Hills at the pace they would need to take.  Then Thorin and Father separated, Thorin to the stewards and Father to Grandfather so he might speak to him in private before court began.  Though the stewards looked dubiously at Thorin, still they followed his instructions to prepare for an evacuation.  They claimed it would take one month’s time.  Thorin told them they had two days.  Next, Thorin went to the Keeper of the Keys.  With Mother gone, he thought she was the best one to reach the women of Erebor.  She was harder to convince.  Finally, Thorin ordered her to attend luncheon with Father and him, so that Father might help Thorin persuade her to action.  He could not go household to household himself, though he would try should it come to that.  Thorin could see that she was affronted to be ordered so, but he had no time to cajole her with smooth words.  They had no idea how much time they had before the dragon came.  It might be years; but it might be today.

Having done all he could for the present, Thorin went down to the training grounds to arm himself.  He took a small bag with him.  Inside was a tunic for Bilbo.  He did not know whether to hope Bilbo would be with them when the dragon came or to hope he would be safe in the Shire; but if he came, Thorin would be ready.  He felt sick as he dressed in his armour and strapped on his sword; it made it seem all the more real.  Still he added Bilbo’s weapons to his bag, including a slingshot for luck, and took up a crossbow and a spear himself.  It had been too long since he had tested his skill at either.  Dwalin caught him on the way to the archery range.

“What is going on?” he asked.  “Balin has the entire barracks stirred up with a switch to long range weapons; and you go to practice crossbow, which I happen to know you hate.”

“I cannot say,” Thorin bit out.  He felt terrible keeping this secret from Dwalin, and then he stopped.  “Go back,” he said.  “Arm yourself, and get a bag for Bilbo.”

Dwalin lowered his voice.  “What is happening, Thorin?” he asked.

“I cannot say,” Thorin repeated.  “Only do as I have said.  Should it need be, consider it an order from your prince.”

“You need not,” Dwalin said.  “But you will tell me when you can.  As soon as you can.”

“I will,” Thorin said.  And he continued on his way to the archery range.  On his way out the Gate, he noted that Grandfather held court, and the Arkenstone remained mounted above his throne.  He did not think that was a good sign.

***

Thorin returned from the range disappointed in himself.  The strength was there, and so the range; but his aim was unacceptable.  He must practice hard in the coming time, however much it was.

At luncheon Father suggested calling for Mother’s chief Lady-in-Waiting as well as the Keeper of the Keys; and Thorin felt embarrassed that he had not thought of it earlier; but Father said he had met no success with Grandfather, so Thorin must not feel bad.

“He will not believe it,” he said.  “But I have set guards to watch for any signs of the dragon’s approach, and I will try your grandfather again tomorrow, and the next day, and every day until he listens or he banishes me from his presence.”  He sighed.  “In the meanwhile, we continue.  He has not actually forbidden any action, but I do not believe he is yet aware that we have set things in motion already.  When he knows...well, then we shall see.”  And then the ladies arrived.

The Keeper of the Keys was recalcitrant, but Mother’s Lady was not as difficult to convince.  Thorin realised that though she had never been present for one of his mysterious appearances, she had seen Bilbo in the presence of the royal family over the years and in his various ages.  She had some notion that there was strange magic afoot.  And once Father and Lady Gruna joined together in argument, the Keeper of the Keys capitulated.  She would send out her servants with word to the families that women and children must leave, and quickly.  They must take only what was necessary.  She would ensure it was done quietly, and warn that no one must speak of it.  She would coordinate with the stewards regarding how many should go to the Greenwood and how many should go to the Iron Hills.  Father offered his solemn thanks, and Lady Gruna was gracious in victory.

“For only you could do this, Doerthe,” she said.  “Without you we should fail entirely.  Certainly you were wise not to listen to a boy; but hearing now the importance of our task from Prince Thrain, I am gratified to know that you shall perform with your usual excellence.”  Thorin bristled to be called a boy, but Father stilled him with a gesture; and the Keeper of the Keys departed.

“Thank you, Gruna,” Father said.  “I think I should not have convinced her on my own, not without Ris.”  Lady Gruna smiled at Father and at Thorin.

“It was years ago, for I do know Thorin grows to be a man,” and here she winked at Thorin, “but I midwifed for the princess at Thorin’s birth.  I could not forget the appearance of that tiny fae creature.  I suspect from whom your warning has come.”  She looked at Thorin.  “His fate is tied to yours, Thorin; and yours to him.  Any warning he brings you I will heed.”  And then she did grimace, a little.  “Though I should like to know against what danger we prepare.”

“I cannot as yet say,” Father replied.  “When the king gives the order to speak, I will obey.”  Thorin noted that he did not say the king was unlikely to give that order, and perhaps never would.

“Very well,” the Lady said.  “At your service.”  And with that, she left them to their meal.

It was seventeen days later that Bilbo appeared, and Thorin was on the archery range with Dwalin and several other fighters.  The elves had sent a contingent of archers after all, and they had agreed to offer their expertise to those dwarrows willing to learn from them.  Thorin spent every minute with them that he did not spend on organizing the slow and careful evacuation.  His aim would never equal Bilbo’s, but it was better now than it had been three weeks before; and dragons were big.

Girion, like Grandfather, had chosen skepticism.  He would not leave Dale and he would send no men to the mountain unless the king ordered it.

Thorin was glad he carried Bilbo’s clothes, for though his face was strangely ageless, he was clearly quite old.  He should not be so exposed to the chill mountain air.

“How old are you now, Bilbo?” he asked, as they slowly walked back to the mountain.

“Eleventy-eleven,” Bilbo replied.  Thorin laughed.

“You must translate that into Westron numbers,” he said.  “I do not understand you.”  Bilbo smiled fondly at him.

“I am one hundred eleven, I believe, in Westron,” he said.  Thorin sobered quickly, and took Bilbo’s elbow to support him.

“You said once that hobbits lived to be one hundred and some years,” he said. 

           

“Yes,” Bilbo replied.  “I near the end.”  He patted Thorin’s arm.  “You must not look so, Thorin,” he said.  “I have lived long, and had good friends, and love, and many fine adventures.  I am ready.”

As they neared the Gate, Bilbo paused to take it in, and paused again in the Great Hall.  Thorin saw that his eyes were drawn to the throne.

“What is the year, Thorin?” he asked.

“Twenty-seven seventy,” he said.  Bilbo gripped his arm tightly, until Thorin looked at him.  Thorin was alarmed to see blood leaking from his ears as well as his nose.

“This year,” Bilbo said.  His weight was all on Thorin’s arms now; his grip tight enough to bruise.  “Thorin!  In this year!”  And then he was gone.  Thorin ran to find Father.

The next day, Smaug came.

Thorin thought that no preparation could truly have readied them for the firedrake.  He was gladdened only to think of the many who were gone.  After the guards had rushed to Father to tell of the signs of the dragon’s coming, Father sent fast messengers to Dale and to the Greenwood and to Balin with the news; then hastened to the throne room himself.

Thorin hurried to the Stewards and the Keeper of the Keys, and Lady Gruna; that they might evacuate any who remained, including themselves, with all urgency; then he ran to find his place with the warriors, and Dwalin.

It was Dwalin, however, who found him.  “This?” he exclaimed.  “This is what you have been holding back for two and a half weeks?”  He shook his head.  “You have been as mithril,” he said.  “As cool and impervious as mithril.”

“I have not felt it,” Thorin said.  “I have felt brittle as mica.  Come.  We must find our place for battle.”

“I would not admit it to anyone but you,” Dwalin said, “but I am glad to be near to the elves.”

Thorin could not describe the battle later, either when it was fresh in his mind or decades following.  It was awe at the sheer size of Smaug and the grace and speed of his flight.  It was the heat of the fire and billowing smoke so he could not see to aim or breath without coughing.  It was overwhelming fear for himself and his comrades, and despair when he realised they would not win this battle.  But none of that would come to his tongue.  He could only say, “It was the day we went into exile.”

Thorin never saw Father at the Gate or in the retreat, or Grandfather either; but they both arrived at the base of the mountain later, scorched and smelling of smoke.  Grandfather seemed dazed and Father would not speak of what had happened, only telling Thorin “Later,” a later that never seemed to come.  Thorin was sent to the Greenwood, where he saw Thranduil, stoic as he always was, betray one moment of shock as he took in the state of the first of his elves to return.  He embraced the one called Legolas.  And thus it was that in his fortieth year, Thorin left Erebor for the first time.  He would not return for many years.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo in the Shire.

 

Bilbo was sixteen the second time he popped in front of a group of other hobbits, and it was in the worst possible circumstances:  at the Old Took’s birthday party.  When he had disappeared as a child, no one had believed his cousins’ tales; but now too many—and too many adults—had seen.  For some, it seemed the last straw.  Bilbo’s dedication to his archery practice, to the exclusion of such hobbit activities as raiding the Maggot farm for apples and mushroom hunting, had already raised eyebrows and wagged tongues; but many hobbits did love ranged games, and most thought he aimed for the bounders when he was older.  This, however:  Bilbo was not sure if it was worse that he had disappeared, or that when he had reappeared he had been naked; but the end was that he was a pariah in Hobbiton, and whispered about across the Shire.

Mama and Papa loved him of course, and Mama scolded anyone she heard gossiping about Bilbo; but his former friends were forbidden from playing with him or even talking to him should they meet at market day, and only a couple of his Took cousins even tried to break the ban.  Bilbo thought now he knew how it had been for Thorin, all those years ago; then felt sorrier for himself as he decided it was worse for him.  At least Thorin had Dwalin; and while eyes might be upon him as prince, no one censured him for something that was out of his control.  He began to pop more often then, and he was glad of it; though it was confusing sometimes, as he would not always come in order, and Thorin would speak as if he should know things he did not.  Yet he was loved and appreciated under the mountain as it seemed only his parents loved him in all of the Shire, and wherever he went there he was made to feel it. 

He began to take a mad sort of satisfaction when he would pop out in front of some disapproving matron, and to dress in dwarven style as best he could, and to practice his archery in full sight of the Party Tree.  But he never spoke to Thorin or his parents or anyone else about it, but kept his pain to himself.  If he was called Mad Baggins, still no one had to know that it hurt him.  Though he thought mama and papa guessed. 

“Bree is not a bad place to live,” Mama suggested one day.  “It is a more bustling place than the Hill or Hobbiton, and those who live there more used to people who are different.”

“There’s different, and then there’s different, Mama,” Bilbo said.  He thought it showed how much they worried for him that she and Papa had even discussed it.

“You might make new friends there, who wouldn’t care about your popping,” Mama said.

“There would just be men to stare and whisper as well as hobbits,” Bilbo replied, resigned.  “Besides,” he added, “Papa built Bag End just for you.  I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing the best smial for miles empty.”

Papa opened his mouth, but Bilbo talked right over him.

“And I would miss my room with its window to the garden,” he added.  “I won’t do it.”  He went to fetch his bow and go practice.

Mama’s face was sad when she watched him sometimes, but she did not mention Bree again.

When he was in the Shire but not flaunting his strangeness in Hobbiton’s upturned noses, he holed up in his papa’s study with his books.  One day mama went to Bree; and when she returned she had a satchel full of new books for him, including two written in Sindarin; and she must have ordered more because in the next months books began to come in the post:  dwarven and elven histories (for you must not neglect the elves, she said), and the histories of the kings of men, which Bilbo had not thought interesting before but it turned out _were_ , and more books written in Sindarin, and one Westron-Sindarin dictionary, that he might translate words he did not know.  Storybooks came too, and then papa said he would have his turn and went and came back with a book full of the most difficult maths Bilbo had ever seen.  So he was kept busy in the Shire as the years went by, but he was very lonely.

Then came the Fell Winter.  Bilbo was glad of his skills in archery then, for he might bring home a rabbit or even a deer for mama to make into stew or roast or for papa to smoke in his old shed.  The Baggins did not go hungry so soon as their neighbours did.  But as the Brandywine froze solid enough, wolves began to cross into the Shire; and they ate or chased away any game remaining.  Then the wolves became even more dangerous, for their only remaining prey were hobbits.

First it was dangerous to go out at night, and then even in the day without a large group, and then it was dangerous to be out at all.  Bilbo’s reputation as an archer finally did some good, however; when the Baggins ran out of food and had to trek to Tuckborough, the other hobbits of the Hill were willing to overlook his habit of disappearing to make the journey together.

They left at daybreak.  Bilbo was surprised to see mama open a trunk to take out a small axe, and a long knife much like the one Bilbo used in Erebor, and a leather jerkin.  She gave Bilbo the knife and made him wear the jerkin.  She herself carried the axe, and she hefted it with the ease and confidence of Dwalin.  If any hobbit looked askance either at Bilbo or at her, she narrowed her eyes as if to dare him or her to say a word.

They made it as far as the East Road with no difficulties, but their pace was slow.  Some in the group were elderly, and more were fauntlings.  Hobbiton was far enough for most to walk, and it was an additional twenty miles to the Great Smials of Tuckborough.  The party was flagging, therefore, when they reached the hills around Waymeet; and that was where they encountered trouble.  Mama saw or heard the first signs, Bilbo did not know, but she cried out, “Wolf!” and then they were upon them.

The pack was clearly starving; their ribs showed, and they attacked at midday; but there were many of them and only Bilbo and his mama were armed.  The wolves aimed for the fauntlings; Bilbo felt sick as he drew back his bow time and again, and then he must throw it down and draw his sword, as the wolves were too close.  Mama took one side and he the other while the rest of the hobbits huddled between.  Fauntlings and their mothers screamed, and all grew pale and shook, and Bilbo could not reach all the wolves.  One tore at a mother who held her little one to the inside of the circle.  The mother screamed, and as the wolf pulled her away from the group by the leg she let go her fauntling that someone else could keep it safe. 

Bilbo dashed toward her, stabbing at the wolf, which did not let go until it was dead.  But the other wolves had seen, and they converged on Bilbo and the mother.  Bilbo slashed and blessed Balin for all his lessons, but there were too many.  One wolf leapt up and clawed Bilbo in his shoulder, knocking him down.  He lived only because he twisted his blade to catch the wolf in the chest at the last instant, before it could tear out his throat.  He tried to scramble up, but the other wolves were there; and then so was Mama, and she laid into them with her axe like he had never seen anyone wield one, even Dwalin.  Even Balin.

The wolves backed enough that Bilbo could stand again, and then they circled back, and ran away when Bilbo attacked.  As they turned for the hills, Bilbo turned to the injured mother, but her husband knelt by her side, and her mother.  Her fauntling cried and reached for her, and she bled; but for the moment, she lived.  He looked to Mama, and realised with a shock that she was injured as well.  She leaned on Papa’s shoulder, and could not put her weight on one leg; she had been hamstrung.  Bilbo looked to the hills.  The wolves would be back, as it grew dark, or more would come; and it was still twelve miles to Tuckborough.

Bilbo went to Mama.  Papa had bent down, and was wrapping her knee with his neckerchief.  She bled some, but the worst was that she could not walk.

“Could be worse,” Mama said.  “Could be far worse.  Check on Poppy Roper; her bleeding must be stopped.”

“But Mama—“ Bilbo began.

“Now, Bilbo,” she said.  “And then you will let me look at your shoulder.”  Bilbo had forgotten his shoulder.  Now that Mama reminded him, it began to throb.  Still, he went over to Mistress Roper.  Her mother had torn some cloth into strips and begun to tie it around her wounds.  She seeped blood, a little; but it seemed to be stopping.  Bilbo went to report to Mama.

“Good,” she said.  “Now bend down.”  Bilbo did.  Mama pronounced that he was not wounded too badly, but if he would remove his neckerchief she would try to bind it.  After she did, she began to shake and sob and hold him tight around his neck.

“My Bilbo,” she cried, “my brave, brave boy.”  Bilbo looked to Papa; he had never seen Mama so.  Papa gave him a sad smile.

“Some hobbits are grown before their thirty-third year,” he said.  He clapped Bilbo on his unwounded shoulder, then turned to organise the group for the remainder of the journey.  It was only two miles to Waymeet, and luckily that was where the Ropers went; but most continued all the way to Tuckborough.  Papa handed Bilbo his bow (Bilbo had forgotten he had dropped it), and said Bilbo should walk with an arrow on the string.  Andwise Roper would carry Poppy, he directed; and Lily and Slonto Proudfoot could spell him as necessary.  He would carry Mama on his back himself, and everyone would stay close.

“We will move as slow as we have to,” Papa said, “but we will keep moving and we will stay together.”  He picked up Mama and they were on their way again.

The two miles to Waymeet took them one hour.  Papa’s face was grim; still, they said goodbye to those who would stay and continued on with their smaller group.  They made a little better time, but not much.  By mid-afternoon, they finally made Whitfell.  Papa motioned over the Bolger tweens.

“With your permission, Odo, I’d like to send your boys to run ahead and ask for a wagon escort back.  I’m not as young as I was, and Belladonna’s not thistledown.”  Mama hit him, and he lowered his voice so only the Bolgers, Mama, and Bilbo could hear.  “We need to be there before twilight.  We don’t make good enough time.”  Odovacar nodded, and Papa pulled the boys close.

“Stay together,” he said, “no matter what.  If one must rest, you both rest.  But rest while you walk, and run when you can.”  Then he sent them on their way.  Soon the tweens were out of sight, and their little group continued, nervous and slow.  But a few hours later, Bilbo’s cousins Adalgrim and Fortinbras came up the road on a two-pony cart.  Mama and all the fauntlings piled in the back, and Granny Proudfoot sat next to Fortinbras, while Adalgrim walked back to the Great Smials with the remainder of the group.  He also carried a bow, and walked opposite Bilbo, his eyes on the woods.  Their pace was brisk now, and soon the Great Smials lay before them.  Bilbo felt something untwist inside him for the first time since the wolves had come over the hills.

Later, as Bilbo sat by the fire, Adalgrim approached him.  Bilbo knew he should be exhausted, but he could not sleep.  He did not pace the perimeter of the Hall, but it was a near thing.  Adalgrim sat with him in silence for a while.  Bilbo did not know him well; Adalgrim was about ten years older than Bilbo, so when Bilbo was a little fauntling, he had been a teen, and as Bilbo grew into a teen himself, Adalgrim was in his tween years.  Now he stood on the cusp of adulthood.  After a time, he spoke.

“I owe you an apology, Bilbo,” he said.

“I don’t know why,” Bilbo answered.  “You have done nothing.”

“That’s exactly it,” Adalgrim said.  “These years when the gossips have been so hard on you, I didn’t do anything.  And you haven’t deserved a single word or a single shunning.”  Bilbo sighed.

“It’s not your fault,” he said.  “It just is.  Hobbits will be hobbits.”

“Hobbits should be better,” Adalgrim replied.  A comfortable silence fell between them, and they sat by the flickering fire a while longer.

Bilbo found himself in Adalgrim’s company often in the days ahead.  It was always busy at the Great Smials, and Bilbo wasn’t used to it compared to Bag End.  Sometimes he would sneak away with a borrowed book for a bit of quiet.  After a while Adalgrim would always seem to find him.  Bilbo didn’t mind, though; one hobbit was not as overwhelming as a crowd.  And as he grew to know Adalgrim, he liked him.  He was serious, for a Took; though he would joke with Bilbo about his running away from the horde of cousins.  He liked the bow; and he read some, though not as much as Bilbo; but few read as much as Bilbo.  He and Fortinbras were close friends as well as close in age, but Fortinbras was one of the rambunctious sort of Tooks; they were a case of two puzzle pieces matching together rather than two of the same.  Fortinbras was friendly to Bilbo, but he didn’t seem to understand him, or what Adalgrim saw in him.

They often came to sit by the fire late in the evening.  One night, Adalgrim seemed to fidget and start to speak, then stop, until Bilbo thought he should take him outside and dunk him in the snow.

“What is it?” he said.

“What is what?”  Adalgrim asked.  Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“What is it that has you fretting like Granny Ada?” Bilbo asked.  “You can’t sit still and you won’t say whatever it is.”

Adalgrim was silent a moment longer.

“You’re just a tween,” he said.

“Ye-es,” Bilbo said.

“You seem older, somehow,” Adalgrim continued.

“Thank you?” Bilbo replied.  Adalgrim sighed.  Silence fell between them, until he spoke again.

“Do you think on it, yet—a special someone?” he asked.

“No,” Bilbo said.

“Oh,” Adalgrim replied.

“I never have had anyone to think on,” Bilbo continued.  “I had no friends.  No one spoke to me.  In all the Shire, there has been no one.”

“And outside the Shire?” he asked.

“What of it?” Bilbo asked.  Adalgrim seemed to gather up his courage.

“I do not know where you go,” he said, “or what you do.  But is there someone you go to?”

“Yes,” said Bilbo.  “He has been my only friend, until now.”

“Only a friend?” Adalgrim asked.

“Yes,” Bilbo said.  Adalgrim sat for a moment, then reached out and gently took Bilbo’s hands.

“Bilbo,” he said.  “You...I think on you.”  Bilbo sat, his hands in Adalgrim’s.  He felt regret.

“In all the Shire,” he said, “if it could be anyone; it would be you.  But I do not think it is in me; or at least, not yet.”  Adalgrim squeezed his hands, then let him go.

“I am glad to know you,” Adalgrim said.  “You have been a warmth to me in this cold winter.  I am glad to have you as a friend.”

So for the first time since he turned sixteen, Bilbo had a hobbit friend.

Bilbo’s wounds healed, though his shoulder was scarred; and Mama healed, though she would always limp now, and Papa carved her a cane.  And one other thing changed after the Fell Winter; for if any of those who lived on the Hill heard Bilbo criticized, they defended him until they ran out of breath.  Bilbo was not alone in the Shire anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the Greenwood, in the Hall of the Elfking.

Father and Grandfather sat in conference with Thranduil late into the night, and all the next day, and the day after.  When they finally emerged, all were grim-faced.  Father pulled Thorin aside.

“Your grandfather and I go to the Iron Hills,” he said.  “We will see to our people there, and we shall consult with Dain.  Our cousins to the north may have advice for dealing with the dragon.  You will remain here with Balin for a time.”

“I want to go with you,” Thorin said.  He did not want to be left behind.  He wanted to see Mother and Frerin and Dis.

“Consider it a fostering,” Father said.  “Our ties with the wood elves are changing, but they are all the more important for that.  Your presence here is a sign of our trust in them.  It is a vital task we ask of you.”  Thorin nodded.  In this, he saw, it was not his choice.  He must act as the heir.  Father brought their foreheads together. 

“I am so proud of you,” he said.  “I could not ask for a better heir.  I could not ask for a better son.  You grow into a dwarf to be reckoned with.”  Thorin blinked back his tears.  He would not cry to dishonour this moment.  Father pulled back a bit then, to whisper in Thorin’s ear.  “Should Bilbo come to you,” he said, “you must tell him that he did all he could to warn us.  It was simply inevitable.  But he saved many dwarven lives with his warning.  We must be grateful for what he gave us.”  Thorin nodded.

“Father,” he said.  “I think it may have killed him.  He was so old when he came last, and it hurt him so much.”  Father squeezed Thorin’s shoulder.

“When we took him into our family at first, when he came under the mountain, I did it out of compassion, for a young boy away from his own place and people.  As time passed, I came to love him almost as I love you and Frerin.”  He paused, and when he continued, his voice was heavy with unshed tears.  “But always I thought on what we gave him.”  He gestured to the gathered dwarves in the hall of the wood elf king.  “Look at what he has given us, and be grateful for whatever magic brought him to us.  That hobbit is the bravest and kindest of people, and we have been priviledged to have him among us.”

“He is my best friend,” Thorin replied.  “You need not tell me how to value him.”

Father squeezed Thorin’s shoulder again.  “And you are another, a young dwarf grown to wisdom and bravery.  I have such hope for our people.  When the time comes, you will rule well, with great heart.”  Thorin did cry then, but Father did too; and they stood together amidst the living dwarves, there in Thranduil’s hall.

***

 

After Father and Grandfather left for the Iron Hills, Thorin began to notice how the dwarves in the Greenwood deferred to him, and even some of the elves.  Dwarf and elf alike would move aside and bow as he passed in the halls, and grown dwarves would come to him to settle disputes amongst them as much as they went to Balin.  He felt uncomfortable in this role, but soon he realised it was much like what he had done in discussing and bullying and cajoling the stewards under the mountain as the evacuation was planned and executed; and someone must do it.  Balin could not do it all.  Most important was finding something to occupy the refugees’ time, that they did not despair over their losses or grow bored with inactivity, and dwarflings ran wild through the many passages of the woodelves’ realm.  Thorin must find something for them all to do.

In this he was lucky, for he soon learned that while Lady Gruna had continued with most of the stewards to the Iron Hills, two of the younger stewards remained, as did the Keeper of the Keys.  Thorin groaned, but he went to her first—and he made certain he remembered her name.  He found her with a group of elderly matrons, gathered together in a room away from the great milling about in the hall.

“Lady Doerthe,” he said, “if I may have a moment of your time?”  She looked at him for a long time, so that he began to wonder what he would do should she say no, and then she nodded.

“Yes, your highness,” she replied, even, and curtsied, and followed him from the room.  He led her to the small chamber he had been using for his many meetings.  He gestured her to sit as he moved behind his little table, but she did not.  He wished he had not sat already.

“I am grateful for all you did as we sent our people from the mountain,” he began.  “I know that we asked much of you.”  She merely nodded.  Still, he must continue, even if she did not make this easy.

“I have come to you to ask for your help again,” he said.  “Our people grow restless here, and think on what is gone; they must have occupation.”  Again, she nodded, but said nothing. 

“I must ask your advice and your help, Lady Doerthe,” he repeated.  “What shall we do for our people?”  She stood still for a long time, looking at him, until Thorin had to force himself not to fidget but to hold steady under her gaze.  Finally she spoke.

“I did not know you,” she said, “under the mountain; only by sight as a running and laughing boy.  I did you an injustice then, when you came to me; and insulted you, and resisted until your Father and Lady Gruna convinced me I must at least obey.”

“You did not insult me,” Thorin lied.  She smiled wryly. 

“I have sons, your highness,” and then she sat.  “What would you ask of me?” she said.  Thorin felt a weight lift from him.  He would not do this alone.

“Have you thought,” she asked, “of the plight of the men of Dale?”  Thorin felt the shame of it; he had not.  “In helping them, we may find comfort as well as occupation.” 

Thorin thought.  “Perhaps the elves have sent aid,” he said.  “I shall ask it of them, and I shall ask if we may contribute our aid as well.”

Lady Doerthe nodded, and this time he saw approval in it.

***

 

In the evenings, Thorin and Balin ate with Thranduil at the high table.  Every dinner with the wood elves seemed a banquet, and Thorin foresaw a day when he would tire of venison.  Thranduil was aloof, and often silent, at these meals.  Thorin felt the stress of his position; he must not embarrass his grandfather, but he had not sat at state dinners before.  He would not have been expected to for another twenty years, before.  So perhaps he was often quiet too; and ate little.

Luckily Balin was at his ease, and smoothed conversation.  He always had a new compliment for the Greenwood or for some skill of the elves, and showed an interest in their traditions.  He deferred to Thranduil and to Thorin, but spoke to all others as an equal.  The elves seemed to appreciate this.  They all appeared ageless to Thorin, and he could not tell who was younger or older or who was senior in position; he merely attempted to follow Balin’s lead.

One evening, he sat next to the elf Thranduil had embraced upon their return to the Greenwood, the one called Legolas.

“Your days are busy,” Legolas noted.

“I find it is better to have an occupied mind,” Thorin said.  “For myself as well as for our people.”  Legolas nodded.

“And yet,” he said, “you must also have a freedom from care, for a time; else you may find that your worries bow you down.”  Thorin did not answer.  He had had freedom before; he had none now, except perhaps in the quiet of his room.

Legolas looked at him.  “Tomorrow,” he said, “I go with a group of others of our youth out into the wood, to hunt.  I invite you to accompany us.”  Thorin felt himself long for the very thought of it.

“I had not thought you a youth,” he said.”

Legolas smiled.  “I am young,” he said, “for an elf.”  Thorin longed to do it.

“I do not know that I can,” he said.  It was then that Thranduil stirred.

“My son invites you, our guest, to join the hunt,” he said.  “It is a great honour among us.”  Thorin’s heart soared.  He smiled at Legolas.

“Gladly I accept,” he said.  And on the morrow, they went.  Thorin knew that he was at best an indifferent archer, but he did not care; he was able to leave the halls of the wood elves for a time, and with it all his cares.  He was pleased to see that Dwalin joined them as well.

“I remembered he was your friend,” was all that Legolas said.

The Greenwood was beautiful.  It was not the strong and stark beauties of Erebor, but a mysterious and misty greenness.  Thorin told Legolas so.

“I thank you,” Legolas said.  “It has been my home for many years, and I have always found it beautiful.  But I thought your mountain majestic.”  He paused.  “I should hope to travel further, one day, for happier reasons.  The world has many different kinds of beauty, I think.”

They were silent for a time then, as they hunted.  In the end, they brought down three deer, though none were Thorin’s kills.  Legolas had shot two of them.

“I have only known one who might match you,” Thorin admitted on their return journey, as the elves sang in their merry way, and Dwalin and Thorin endured much teasing for their terrible archery.

Legolas laughed.  “I take too much pride in my skill,” he said.  “If few are my equal here, I doubt to find one amongst the dwarves.  I intend no insult; you have many warriors without peer, but few are archers.”

“No,” said Thorin.  “Not a dwarf.”

“Another elf?” Legolas asked.  “I did not think you knew many of us.”

“I do not,” Thorin replied.  “He is a hobbit.”

“A hobbit!” Legolas exclaimed.  Thorin only nodded.  He wished Bilbo would come.

***

 

A month went by before a raven came with news from the Iron Hills.  If the dwarves remained welcome in the Greenwood, they should stay there.  If their welcome should wear thin, send word; then come to the Iron Hills.  Mother and Father and Frerin and Dis were well.  Grandfather and Father and Dain discussed what to do.

They seemed to still be welcome in Thranduil’s halls, so they stayed.  Many a dwarf and elf had formed tentative friendships over this time, as Thorin and Legolas had.  Thorin and Doerthe concentrated their efforts on keeping dwarflings occupied and contributing to their hosts as best they could.  They could not hunt as well as the elves; they had not the many resources of the mountain; but they had brought some, and many had brought tools.  Their skill they offered to their hosts.

Those who were not miners assisted the elves in their efforts to help the men.  The elves had been providing aid, but they welcomed more hands.  Dale was devastated.  The few survivors had moved farther south, to Esgaroth on the Long Lake, which the men also called Lake-town.  Girion had not been one of those that lived.  There was no more Lord of Dale.           

Thorin could not go often, but on occasion he went to help.  He was not a healer, but he was strong; he could carry what needed to be carried, and he could assist in building homes for the displaced men.  The elves’ help, he noted, was received with gratitude; the dwarves’ help was met with a mixed response.  Some men were grateful, but some seemed to resent the dwarves.  Thorin saw one man spit in the face of the healer who tried to clean and rebandage his wounds.

“That is churlish behavior to one who would help you,” he said.  The man spit at his feet.

“I was there,” he said, “guarding at Lord Girion’s council, when the dwarf prince came.  Your people brought this down on our heads, and we have paid the price that you did not.”

Thorin leaned into his face.  “If you were there,” he said, “you know that the prince came to warn Girion, and he refused to heed the warning.  Many dwarves died in defending the mountain, though I do not know to compare the numbers of those lost to the men who were killed; and we are also homeless.  I am sorry for your losses, but you will not take them out on our people.  It was a dragon killed you, and us, and drove us from our homes; and not dwarves.”  He stood straight and gestured to the healer.  He would not stand for it.

“Come,” he said.  “Gather your things and return to the Greenwood.  We shall not help where we are not wanted, and I shall not suffer you to be abused in this way.”

“Not all are ungrateful, your highness,” the healer responded.  Thorin looked at her.

“You will be treated with respect,” he said, “or you will not stay.  It is a command to all of you.”  He looked at the man.  “And he can find an elf to help him, for no dwarf may.”

The healer bowed and left the tent.  Thorin resolved to spend more time in Esgaroth.

It was in Thranduil’s banquet hall, however, that Bilbo finally came to him; and in a most dramatic way, for he appeared on top of the table, right next to the roast.  He had the scar Thorin had seen before, claw marks on his shoulder; and they seemed fresh, still pink and healing.  He was young, but he seemed older than Thorin.  Thorin had begun to despair of ever being the elder between them.  He knew it was ridiculous; he was a dwarf.  He _was_ older than Bilbo in years; and yet, he was jealous.  Thranduil spilled his wine and Legolas spit out his food.  Balin covered a laugh with his mouth, but Thorin could not hide his laugh.

“Bilbo!” he cried.  “At last!”  And he stood to embrace him.  Bilbo, unsurprisingly, seemed embarrassed.

“This is the worst timing thus far,” he complained, as Thorin led him to find something to wear.  “And why do you not have my bag?”

“The king of the wood elves frowned at me when I brought weapons to his table,” Thorin said.  “He may regret it now, if he likes!”

As Thorin had half expected, Legolas sought him out as soon as he was able.  He was leaning against the doorframe as Thorin answered his knock.

“So,” he said, with no preliminaries, “a hobbit.”  Thorin laughed.

“A hobbit,” he replied.

“Right here,” Bilbo said.  “Feel free to discuss me if you like!”  Thorin did feel free; he felt so free.  Bilbo was there.

“Legolas,” he said, “may I present my very good friend Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, a most excellent archer.”  He turned to Bilbo.  “Bilbo:  Legolas, prince of the Greenwood.”

“At your service,” Bilbo told Legolas.

“Then you may meet me on the morrow to test your skill with a bow against mine,” Legolas said, smiling.

“Very well,” said Bilbo, “if Thorin has my bow.”  And then he turned to Thorin.  “But Thorin, why are we here instead of the mountain?”

Thorin and Legolas looked to each other, quiet.

“Ah, Bilbo,” Thorin said.  “I shall tell you later, when we may sit and talk for a while.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, “do you think I have not noticed?  I recognized only Balin at the table, and Dwalin as we passed below.  Where is the rest of your family?”

“On the morrow,” Legolas said, and he bowed and left. 

Thorin sat on the bed, his head in his hands.  Bilbo sat down next to him, a gentle arm around his shoulders.

“Thorin?” he asked.

Thorin turned and clung to him.  “We are exiled.  A dragon has driven us from under the mountain,” he said, and then he could not speak for some time.

“Ah—Thorin—“ Bilbo said, and then held him tight as Thorin cried in his arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are always the same when Bilbo comes; Thorin's family comes to the Greenwood.

As always, those around him found Bilbo’s magic fascinating.  Thranduil’s request to meet him was more of a demand, so Legolas and Bilbo’s archery match must be postponed. 

“I have never heard of such a magic,” Thranduil said.  He seemed offended that he had not.

“I have no explanation,” Bilbo said. “I only know that it has been happening most of my life, and that I always come to Thorin.”

“Your fates are tied,” said Thranduil.

Thorin took a deep breath.  “More than you know,” he said, “either of you.  For it was you, Bilbo, who warned us that Smaug was coming.”

Thranduil leaned forward, his face keen.  “He came to tell you of the future?” he asked.

“He came from the future, to warn us of what to him was a past event,” Thorin corrected.  He turned back to Bilbo.  “And it was very difficult for you to do.  You and the magic fought; and though you succeeded in giving us warning, I fear it may have killed you.”

Bilbo seemed pale.  “It was not enough,” he said.

Thorin reached for Bilbo, but it was Thranduil who spoke.

“No,” he said.  “Though the dragon has wrought great damage, it is not the devastation it would have been had Smaug come without warning.  You saved countless dwarven lives.”  Thorin nodded.

“Bilbo,” he said, “all our women, all our children:  safe, because of you.  It is true that some warriors’ lives were lost; but we were prepared, so we had strategies in place for how to fight and how to retreat if we had to.”  He shook Bilbo’s shoulders gently.  “Bilbo,” he said.  “My mother and father, Frerin and Dis, Balin and Dwalin:  alive, because of you.”  He forced Bilbo to meet his eyes.  “We may have lost the mountain, but the dwarves of Erebor remain.  We survive.”  Bilbo slowly nodded.

“The future of the dwarves of Erebor holds much hope,” said Thranduil, his eyes hooded.

Bilbo nodded, but he looked at his hands and was quiet.  Thranduil excused them; and Legolas was waiting, bow in hand.  Before crossing to him, Thorin pulled Bilbo aside.

“Please, Bilbo,” he pleaded, “do not despair.  Only imagine what you would have found should you not have come to warn us.”

“I am,” Bilbo said, and ran away.  Thorin did not know what to do.

Legolas approached him.  “Your friend fears our contest so?” he asked.  “I will not crow too much when I win.”  Thorin sighed, and covered his face with his hands.

“My friend mourns the loss of the mountain,” he said.  He took a deep breath, and clapped Legolas on the shoulder.  “Another time?” he asked.

“Another time,” Legolas replied.  “Tomorrow!”  Thorin smiled, then his smile fell away, and he followed after Bilbo.

Thorin found him in his bedroom, lying on Thorin’s bed.  He sat up when Thorin entered.

“I am sorry,” Bilbo said.  “It is I who should comfort you.”  Thorin lay on the bed next to him.

“You do,” he said.  “I have wished for you.  I am glad you finally came.”

“I wish I had been there on that day,” Bilbo said, and shuddered.  “Yet the thought fills me with terror.”  Thorin thought for a moment.

“During this whole time,” he said slowly, “even when you were not there, you were at my side.  You _were_ with me that day.”  He stopped.  “I had not realised until now.”  And so they lay side by side on the bed, their shoulders touching.  Thorin knew there were many things he should be doing, but he could not care at that moment.  He wanted nothing more than to be where he was, with his friend by his side.

***

 

The next day, Thorin sent a raven to Father to tell him that Bilbo had come (and perhaps that Thranduil had dropped his goblet), and Legolas and Bilbo had their archery contest.  They _were_ well matched, though Legolas did prove superior:  he had a longer range than Bilbo, whose accuracy began to drop off as the targets become as pebbles in the distance.  Many of the younger elves had gathered to watch, and they cheered Bilbo at the end.  When Bilbo asked why, Legolas laughed his merry laugh.

“Do not think it is a mean feat, what you have done today,” he said.  “You have challenged an elven champion at archery, and you have done as well as any I have ever taken up my bow against.”

Bilbo smiled.  “I _have_ always wanted to try my luck against an elf,” he said.

Bilbo stayed for only five days, but returned again after a week away.  He was shaken when he arrived, and pulled Thorin aside.

“I was gone from the Shire five days,” he said.

“And?” Thorin asked.  “You were here five days.”  Bilbo grabbed his forearm urgently.

“You do not understand,” Bilbo hissed.  “I have never been gone that long before!  When I have come before, I returned to the Shire only seconds—at most minutes—after I had left!  My mama and papa were frantic; my aunts and uncles and cousins all in an uproar—“

“They know you come to us,” Thorin said.  Bilbo grew even more frustrated.

“Thorin!” he near yelled, then lowered his voice as dwarf and elf alike turned to stare.  “When I was eight, I came to you for _six months_!  It is all well and good to say that they know where I am; but I cannot contact them, and they do not know that I am well or when I will return.  Or if I will return this time!”

Thorin rounded on him.  “I cannot care,” he said angrily.  “It is selfish of me, but I cannot care what they think in the Shire or how long you are gone; I only care that you are here.  If I could keep you forever I would.  And there is nothing to be done, Bilbo; you cannot control it!  So cease worrying; what will be, will be; and this, neither of us can change!”  He became aware that his voice was raised and his face flushed.  A hush had fallen over the room, and the whole host of dwarves and elves were staring at him.  And Bilbo’s face...

“I care,” he finally said.  “Perhaps I cannot change it, but I care.”  And he walked away.  Thorin felt sick inside.

It was no better two days later.  Bilbo did not avoid him; neither did he seek him out.  He did not yell again, but neither did he confide in Thorin.  He smiled, but not with his eyes, and he did not laugh.  Thorin often saw him standing silently, overlooking the river as it flowed under the bridge entrance to the elven stronghold.  He hesitated to approach Bilbo when he never would have before.  He did not know how long it would have gone on, but that Dwalin spoke to him.

“It’s ridiculous, you know; you watching him watching the river, the neither of you speaking to each other,” he said.

“He’ll speak to me,” Thorin said, “only it’s the same way he’d speak to any dwarf in the hall.  And I don’t know what I could have to say to him that I haven’t already said.”

“How about ‘I’m sorry,’” Dwalin suggested.  Thorin glared at him.

“Aren’t you?” he asked.  He seemed genuinely curious.  Thorin shook his head.

“I didn’t say a thing I didn’t mean,” he told Dwalin.  Dwalin groaned.

“Thorin, I realise you did not grow up in the same world the rest of us did, but you don’t say all the things you might mean at the time, not if you want to keep your friends.”

Thorin pulled himself up to his full height.  “I do not and I will not lie,” he said.  Dwalin groaned again, then took Thorin by the shoulders and shook him.

“Did you mean to tell your friend that his opinions and wishes didn’t matter?  That his family should mean nothing to him?  To remind him that he has no control over whether he will ever see them again, and that you hope he never does?”  Dwalin shook his head.  “Because that’s what you said to him.”  And then he too walked away from Thorin, and Thorin felt worse than he had before.

Still Thorin could not speak to Bilbo.  He had never apologized before, only to Father and Mother.  He did not know what to say or how to say it, so he avoided the situation entirely.  He began to avoid Bilbo, seeking out work amongst the dwarves.  He could not bring himself to go to Lake-town, not when Bilbo might not be there when he returned to the Greenwood; but he threw himself into the administrative duties he would otherwise delegate.  He did not know how long he might have continued like this; he knew he had the stubborn disposition of many dwarves, but he did not have to.  On the third day, Bilbo came to him.

“I must attend to several duties this morning, but shall I see you at luncheon?” Thorin began.

“I forgive you for speaking unpalatable truths to me,” Bilbo replied.  Thorin simply stood awkwardly in front of him.  He did not know what to say to that.  No, actually, he did.

“I do not know what to say to that,” he said.  Bilbo smiled sadly.

“All right,” he said, and turned to go.

“Wait—“ Thorin said.  Bilbo turned.  “I can’t be sorry for speaking truth to you,” he said.  “But I wish I had not been so unkind in how I said it.  Dwalin showed me how I was.”

Bilbo nodded.  “I forget sometimes, how young you are,” he said.  “Most times you do not seem it.”  He paused, and then smiled a little wicked smile that went all the way to his eyes.  “I accept your apology.”  He turned and left the room.

“I do not apologise!” Thorin yelled out the door.  “And I am older than you!”  He sat alone in his little room and smiled at no one.  He would see which of his duties he might delegate after all.  It seemed he still had a friend.

And the next month, when Bilbo left him again, he was glad that Bilbo had been brave enough to speak when he had not, for they parted as friends, and not estranged.

***

 

Over the next half-year, ravens went back and forth between the Iron Hills and the Greenwood, and not all of them came to Thorin.  He was pleased to hear that Father and Mother and Frerin and Dis would be coming to the Greenwood, but he was not privy to the reason why until their arrival.  After a most happy reunion, Father pulled Thorin aside.

“I know not what you have done or how you have done it, but you have been a savior to our people once again,” he said.

“I have done nothing!” Thorin exclaimed.

“You have done everything,” Father replied.  “Thranduil has offered the dwarves of Erebor Emyn Duir.”

“He has not said a word to me of this!” Thorin could not yet believe it, but oh—the hope!

“Nevertheless, it must have been you,” he said.  “Your grandfather’s eyes turn to the ancient glories of Khazad-dûm, and Dain has advised Ered Luin.  None thought of the Dark Mountains.  Thranduil offered.”

“Has he the right?” Thorin wondered.  “No other has claim?”

Father nodded.  “Emyn Duir is his to claim, and it is ours if we want it.  I am here to see if we do.”

The next month was a flurry of preparation.  If Thorin had thought that the dwarves in exile in the Greenwood were content enough, he soon saw them truly happy simply at the prospect of a new mountain home.  He hoped and prayed that Emyn Duir—the Dark Mountains of the Greenwood— had something to offer. 

Thorin was not to go with the first exploratory group, only Father and an expedition of the best miners.  They would be gone two months then return with a preliminary report.  Thorin felt such pride.  In this, grandfather had placed the future of their people in Father’s hands.  Though he had been in the halls of the wood elves for almost two years, Thorin did not know how he would wait the two months to hear from Father again.

But wait he must.  It was strange being with Mother and Frerin and Dis again, after so long alone; and it was not an easy time.  He had grown accustomed to his independence, and Mother wanted to know his whereabouts always, and to have his time in the mornings when he adjudicated disputes, or the afternoons he spent with Legolas and the other young dwarves and elves, or the evenings he retired to his room alone.  She did not seem to understand that he was no longer Frerin’s age, or appreciate that he had been answerable to no one for eighteen months.

Frerin was oddly shy and unlike himself.  Thorin saw him, sometimes, nearby; but he did not approach Thorin or speak to him.  He seemed to spend his time alone; Thorin supposed he had not seen many boys of Frerin’s age among the exiles here, but he thought there were some.  He did not know why Frerin did not make friends.

Dis...  Dis conquered the Greenwood with her golden curls and ready smile.  She had Mother’s beauty and the lisping charm of a dwarfling, and Thorin had seen even Thranduil smile at her.  Thorin did not worry about Dis.  He did worry about Frerin, a little.  He resolved to speak to him.

The next morning, Thorin spoke to Frerin after breakfast.

“Walk with me, if you would,” he said.  “I must meet with some dwarves yet this morning, but I have some time for my brother.”

“Do you?” said Frerin.  “Your days seem very full indeed.”

Thorin was taken aback.  “Should I cloister myself?” he asked.  “There are things to do; I do them.  I have made friends; I see them.  Are you not wretched, doing nothing?”

Frerin did not answer, only dragged his feet along the ground.  Thorin remembered when Father had hated when he had done that.  It seemed so long ago; it was only five years.

Thorin sighed.  “In two days time, we hunt for deer,” he said.  “I will speak with Legolas.  Should Mother give her permission, you may join us.”

Frerin sneered.  “Oh, I may join you,” he mocked.  “The all important and much beloved Thorin.”

“Or you could stay behind,” Thorin said with some exasperation.  “I begin to remember why I found you so annoying.”

Frerin began to prance in a circle, “Oh, I’m Thorin,” he chanted.  “I may deign to spare you mortals some morsel of my glorious presence!”

Thorin shoved him into the wall and strode off.

The next day at luncheon he complained to Legolas about Frerin, and he began to laugh.

“Oh no,” he said.  “You will find no pity here.  I am the _younger_ brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to the canon purists who may be reading this: I was under the mistaken impression that Legolas _did_ have an older brother when I wrote this chapter; and though I have since learned differently, I liked the last line in this chapter so much I kept it. I accept all blame. :P


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emyn Duir, the Dark Mountains of the Greenwood.

 

**Thorin, my son** ,

**Emyn Duir does not have the splendour of Erebor; nor, I imagine, is it as comfortable as guesting with Thranduil Elfking.**   **Yet it is good to be under a mountain of our own again.**

**Our tunnels are still mostly plans in the heads of the engineers, and the ones the miners have carved out are rough; but we will perfect our work later.  Our efforts in delving into the rock are almost evenly split between searching out the treasures of these mountains and creating housing for the dwarves who have lived with you in the Greenwood these years.  The dwarves who went to the Iron Hills must wait a while longer yet.**

**I must ask you to wait a while longer; I have seen how invaluable you are there in the Elfking’s Hall.  But soon, my son, we will have a new home in Emyn Duir; and I am eager for the day that you will see it.**

**Yours,**

**Father**

 

So though the dwarves wanted to be in their new home, they were not shut of the elven king’s hospitality yet.  As shelter was created in Emyn Duir, a new wave of dwarves was sent upon the short journey, but they could not all go at once; and Thorin was to remain until the last, as would Mother and Frerin and Dis.  Father’s letters were not the only word they had of their new home, however; dwarves thronged the guides who came to bring each new group to the mountains, and they were regaled with stories.  Still, Thorin wanted to see for himself.  He was eager to go, though he would miss Legolas; and he knew his friend would miss him.  He thought Thranduil might actually miss the dwarves when they were gone as well, though he knew better than to suggest such a thing to anyone.

Finally the last group departed from the halls of the Elfking.  He tried to be somber when he said his goodbyes to Legolas, but he could not.  He was too happy to be going to the place that would be home.

“I will think you do not like us,” Legolas teased.  Thorin laughed.

“I would think you should be happy to see the back of such guests, who have stayed far too long and eaten up all the contents of your larder,” Thorin replied.

“No,” Legolas said.  “The Greenwood will grow dull.”

“You must come and visit under the mountain, then,” Thorin said.  “Though I do not know when we will be ready for guests.”  Legolas laughed then.

“A fine invitation you give,” he said, “Luckily elves are long-lived.  No matter the time it takes; when you are ready, I will come.  Though should your beard be grey by then, I will tease you mercilessly.”  And thus they parted friends.  Thorin thought on what strange company he kept; of his best friends, one was a hobbit and one an elf.  He hoped he would see them both again soon.

***

Father was right; Emyn Duir was not mighty Erebor, but Thorin liked it all the same.  It was not comfortable; furnishings were sparse, and the accommodations very basic.  It would be years before it was a more comfortable home, and decades—perhaps centuries—before it equaled Erebor, if it ever could.  Nevertheless, Thorin found he agreed with Father; it was good to be under the mountain again, in their own mountain.  Thorin found himself pressed into work as an administrator again, though he was grateful that now that Father was with them, he had become the adjudicator rather than Thorin.  Still, Thorin worked to ensure that all had work to do that was suited to their skills, and that families had the resources they needed to live.  Feeding such a large group was more complicated than Thorin had known; he gained new appreciation for the stewards’ work, and remembered with some chagrin when he had ordered that they prepare to evacuate all the women and children of Erebor in two days time.  He was astounded they had done it in the time they had had.

Their primary difficulty was the slow speed at which expansion progressed.  The caves of Emyn Duir required much work to be habitable.  The smaller colony in exile from the Greenwood fit, only just, in what was now excavated.  The larger group which had gone to the Iron Hills, and included Grandfather, would not be able to move to Emyn Duir for a long time.

The ore deposits, however, seemed promising; no mithril, but many veins of gold, and some deposits of gems began to be found as well.  They had the beginnings of a strong dwarven home.  Thranduil’s gift would be kind to them.  They owed him more than they could ever repay.  Thorin insisted that the first offerings the mountain provided be sent to him, and Father was soon convinced that it was only right to show their thanks in such a way; though the next were sent to Grandfather.  Their gifts to Thranduil were met with much graciousness, and shortly thereafter a group of elves arrived with many sides of venison in return.  Father was more excited about the venison than Thorin.  Thorin would be happy to not eat venison again for a long, long time.

It was five years before all the dwarves of Erebor could move into Emyn Duir.  By that time, some chose to remain in the Iron Hills rather than risk a new life in an untried place.  But most came under Grandfather’s leadership.  Thorin had looked forward to this day from the first, when he had heard of Thranduil’s offer:  all of the dwarves of Erebor, reunited at last.  He had not realised how much things would change.  Life in the smaller Emyn Duir had become more informal, as seemed to suit their new home; but with Grandfather came all the trappings of court once more.  While some were glad to have a permanent home; some seemed to find Emyn Duir lacking, as if they had expected Erebor in all its glory, recreated in under a decade in the Mountains of the Greenwood.  Thorin was not sure in which camp Grandfather stood.  When he spoke, he spoke not of Erebor or Emyn Duir but of Khazad-dûm.

As for Thorin himself, he was happy to be able to resume his lessons in war craft as well as in the classroom; but he found that the young stewards with whom he had worked these years still came to him on occasion, as the families first to come to Emyn Duir still went to Father sometimes with their disputes—especially amongst themselves.  Integrating their two groups of exiles was not as easy as Thorin had thought that it would be.  When he went to Father for advice, Father shrugged.

“We must not encourage it,” he said, “but neither will I turn them away.  Ensure first that they have attempted the proper channels.  If they have not, you must send them there; I think it best you not interfere unless you must.”

Thorin only looked at Father, who laughed. 

“Do _not_ encourage it,” he said, “but you may help if you can do so subtly.  It is true that we must not undermine the reunion of our communities.”

Bilbo had not come all the long years that they had built Emyn Duir, but he came half a year after the dwarves who had gone to the Iron Hills.  He seemed of an age with the time he had come to warn them of Smaug’s coming, as old as Thorin had ever seen him, except at that last warning, when he had been very old indeed; but when Thorin asked him he only shook his head.  He was complimentary towards all that they had done inside the mountains, but best of all Bilbo liked to explore outside.  The Mountains of the Greenwood were not as high or as arid as Erebor; and Bilbo cajoled Thorin to join him outside, to go to where the Greenwood met the Mountain.

“It is so lovely here,” he said, as they sat on the mossy rocks by a mountain stream.  “I don’t mean that Erebor was not,” he said to Thorin’s protesting look.  “But this is a different sort of beauty, close and peaceful and full of life.  The Lonely Mountain seemed distant sometimes, in its majesty.”

Thorin snorted, but he secretly agreed.  Erebor had been beautiful, but it was a stark beauty, a diamond beauty.  Emyn Duir was like the veins of gold that ran through it, warm and soft and welcoming.  Like Bilbo, actually; it was no surprise that he liked it.

Bilbo also helped Thorin have a different perspective on those who came to him for help it was no longer his purview to give.

“They have come to value you and be valued by you,” he said.  “They want reassurance that you still care about them; give them that, and I think they will not need to come to you with complaints.”

“Well, perhaps they will come less often to complain,” he said laughingly to Thorin’s skeptical look.  “At the very least you might try.”

And Thorin found that there was wisdom to Bilbo’s words, as there had been to Father’s, for if he merely listened closely and commiserated, often that was enough.

Bilbo was quieter now, and sometimes seemed sad; but usually Thorin could cheer him.  He sometimes seemed distracted when the family gathered, and would have to visibly gather his thoughts to join the talk around the table.  Thorin would have thought that perhaps life in the Shire was difficult for Bilbo in some way, but what could be hard in that soft green land?

This visit, then, was quiet, and peaceful, and much like Emyn Duir itself.  Thorin was sorry to see it end.  But he was always sorry to see Bilbo go.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo learns he is to be a burglar, among other things.

When Bilbo next popped to Thorin, he was an adult grown:  handsome, bearded, and with silver in his hair.  He sat on a log on a small mountain ledge, facing out towards the stars; a fire crackled some distance away, a circle of dwarves around it.

“I can tell you are there, burglar,” he said.

Bilbo laughed.  “You are finally older than me,” he said.  “But why call me burglar?”

Thorin’s back stiffened.  He didn’t turn around.  “What else should I call you?” he asked.  “Do you _prefer_ grocer?”

Bilbo began to sober.  He did not understand this, but he didn’t like it.

“I would have you call me Bilbo, as it is my name,” he said.  “Or you might call me friend, as that is what we have been.  But I can see that you are angry with me, and so I bid you good night.”  He turned to stalk off, then turned back.  “And I suspect that you owe me an apology, though I do not know why.”  He turned away again and went to the fire.  He had already seen that Thorin did not have his bag.

“Spare a tunic or a blanket?” he asked the circle of dwarves at large.  The dwarves all turned and stared.

“Mr. Boggins!” exclaimed a dark youth with a sparse beard who looked much like Frerin, falling backwards off his seat.

“Bilbo!” said two of the dwarves, and yes—Bilbo could see Balin and Dwalin in them, though they had changed greatly in the intervening years.  Balin’s beard was all white now; and Dwalin had a beard, and mustache too, and both were beginning to grey; but Dwalin had tattoos instead of hair on his head, and carried a hammer instead of an axe!

Strangest of all, a hobbit standing on the far side of the circle stood up, and he saw his own surprised face, though older, before the other him was gone.

“Never mind,” he said.  “I’ll just take my own clothes.”

And then they were upon him.

He wasn’t swarmed by all of them, exactly; in fact, many had taken a cautious step or two away; but Dwalin almost jumped the fire to see him and Balin was not far behind, only stopping to inspect his other’s clothes.  And many crowded him curiously.

“’Tis the strangest aspect of your magic yet!” Dwalin exclaimed.  Balin merely handed him his clothes, then brought their foreheads together a bit too hard.

“Laddie,” he began, but stopped as a tall figure in grey stepped out from the cover of darkness.

“Strangest aspect of what magic, Dwalin—Ah!  Mr. Baggins, you are looking rather different.”

“Do I know you?” Bilbo asked.  “Only I might have met you in the future, but I don’t remember you now.”

“I can see how that would be confusing,” he said.  “I am Gandalf the Grey, and I believe we have had this conversation before, son of Belladonna Took.”

“Well, that’s my mama right enough; and it’s nice to meet a friend of hers, Mr. Gandalf.”  Bilbo replied.  “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Gandalf said.  He looked around the circle, and at the empty pile of clothing in Balin’s hands.  “It seems we are in need of a burglar.”

Bilbo took the clothing from Balin.  “I will help you if I can,” he said, “but as you see, I cannot promise that I will stay.”

“You never do,” Thorin growled from behind him, then turned to Gandalf.  “Do you see now?  Better to have another burglar, or no burglar at all, then one who disappears when we need him most.”  Bilbo felt the sudden shock of it, and it must have shown on his face, for Balin hurried him away to find a place to change, away from the fire and the silent circle of dwarves.  Dwalin stayed Thorin by the arm, speaking to him so quietly that Bilbo could not hear.

Bilbo’s clothes fit him, only... “They’re not very sturdy for camping, are they?”  he asked Balin.  “When did I become such a fashionable hobbit?”

Balin smiled sadly at him.  “You can see that many years have passed, my lad.”

“Yes,” Bilbo replied.  “I’ve jumped ahead quite a bit; but I’ll come back to the rest when I’m older, I suppose.”

But Balin shook his head.

“No, you won’t,” he said.  “Until yesterday, I haven’t seen you for more than 140 years.”

Bilbo felt strangely blank.  “140 years?” he said.  Balin nodded.

“No wonder Thorin is mad at me,” Bilbo said. 

Balin’s face was inscrutable.  “Best to stay away from him for now, I think,” he said.  “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the company.”

The rest of the company, it turned out, included Groin’s sons Oin and Gloin, though Oin was so deaf Bilbo wasn’t sure he could hear his name no matter how loudly he shouted it; a mining family:  brothers Bombur and Bofur, and cousin Bifur; a family of the most disparate dwarves Bilbo would not have believed them related had Balin not assured him it were so:  Dori, Nori, and Ori; and Dis’s _sons_ , Fili and Kili.  The company seemed a bit shaken by Bilbo’s coincident appearance and disappearance.  Bilbo, by contrast, was taken with them; they were all rather sweet, and Fili and Kili:

“Fili has just Dis’ hair!” he exclaimed.  “And Kili could be Frerin’s twin!” 

Once again a silence fell over the company, this one more tense then the last.

“I could?” Kili asked hesitantly.

“Of course you could!” Bilbo replied.  “How none of you have marked it, I do not know.”

Balin grasped Bilbo’s upper arm.  “I can see there are things you need to know, Bilbo,” he said.  “You have come into a more delicate situation than you ken.”

Bilbo looked at Balin.  “What is it you have not told me?” he asked.

So Balin told him of the battle of Azanulbizar.  Bilbo wept to hear it.  Part of him wished he still did not know, and hated Balin for being the one to tell it to him.

***

Later, as Dwalin kept watch, and the rest of the dwarves slept, he sniffled by the fire; and Fili and Kili crept up next to him.

“Will you tell us of Uncle Frerin?” they asked.  “And our grandfather?”

Bilbo shook his head.  “’Tis not my place,” he said.

“But none will speak of them,” said Fili.  “And we never knew either.”

Bilbo thought for a moment.  He looked to Dwalin, who met his eyes, nodded, then looked away.

“I was eight years old when I met your grandfather Thrain,” he said, “which is about twenty for a dwarf.”  He paused.  “That’s how old your Uncle Thorin was: twenty; and Frerin was eight.  Your mother was a babe of two years.”

Kili’s voice was hushed.  “Were they very close, our uncles?”

Bilbo breathed out a tiny chuckle.  “Actually, as I recall, they fought constantly.”

At some point, Bilbo noted that Thorin’s shoulders were very stiff for one who slept, but he did not tell Bilbo to stop.

***

 

He had a knife and bow in his pack; but apparently he had not been wearing them, based on the looks the company gave him the next morning.  Nevertheless, he put them on; it might not be winter, but he had heard howling in the night.  He did not know what to do with the pony, which the dwarves seemed to find amusing.

“At least some things stay the same with him,” he heard one of the dwarves—Bofur, he thought—say to another.  His brother?  Cousin?  The big one...Bombur.  He hoped he could remember all their names today.

Thorin and Dwalin rode at the front of the line, and after one look at Thorin’s face, Bilbo fell towards the back.  He wasn’t very good with his pony, so it happened very easily.  The wizard Gandalf rode beside him. 

“I must admit, there is more to you than even I knew, Mr. Baggins,” he said.  “You are not one of the Maiar, and I have never heard of a magic such as yours.”

“I have no explanation,” Bilbo said wearily.  “I have never understood it; it just is.”

Gandalf opened his mouth.

“I cannot control it,” Bilbo said.

Gandalf closed his mouth.

“If you want the older me back, I cannot say what will happen; only I have never seen myself pop like that before.  I have never been in the same time and place as myself before.”  He paused.  “That _was_ rather strange.”

“I hope you will consider me a friend,” Gandalf said.

“I do not know you yet,” Bilbo said.  “I don’t see any reason you should not be.”  He paused.  “Perhaps you might tell me where we are going,” he added.

Gandalf seemed pleased that he had asked.  “We journey to Erebor,” he said.

“Erebor!”  Bilbo exclaimed.

“To defeat Smaug and retake the Lonely Mountain,” Gandalf continued.

“To do _what_?” Bilbo did not believe he could possibly have heard correctly.  “You go with thirteen dwarves to do what the combined forces of Erebor and the Iron Hills did not dare to try?”

“And one hobbit,” Gandalf said serenely.  “But I do not go all the way.”

“Then you are the only sane one!”  Bilbo knew his voice was raised, but he could not help it.  This was madness.  They would all die.  With some difficulty, he spurred his pony towards the front of the line.

“Thorin, this is madness!” he exclaimed.  “How do you think to kill the dragon you could not stop—“ he looked to Dwalin—“how many years?” he asked.

“One hundred seventy-one,” Dwalin replied.

Bilbo sat back hard and his pony stopped.  “One hundred seventy-one,” he repeated.  Thorin only continued to ride.  He did not acknowledge Bilbo at all.

After a moment, Bilbo fell back in towards the end of the line.  None spoke to him; perhaps they thought Thorin’s disdain for him was contagious.  One hundred seventy-one years.  It was almost two lifetimes to a hobbit.  Had he died; perhaps that was why he had not appeared to Thorin for that long span?  But he had come now, and his older self as well.  It made no sense.  He looked for Gandalf.  He was two dwarves ahead.  Bilbo bullied his pony into passing those two to catch Gandalf.

“What year is it?” he asked with no preliminaries.

“2941, in the Third Age,” Gandalf replied.  Bilbo tried to convert in his head.

“That is 1341, Shire Reckoning?” Bilbo asked.  Gandalf frowned.

“I believe so,” he said.

“Valar,” Bilbo breathed.  “This is the first time I have ever popped in my own lifetime.  All this time, it happened before I was born.”

Gandalf rode beside him in silence.  Bilbo could barely hold his seat on the blasted pony, he was so disconcerted; but Gandalf seemed to understand.  Bilbo rode the rest of the day in a daze.

In the next weeks his daze did not lift.  If he spoke to the dwarves of the company, he thought he must make no sense at all.  He mourned the lives lost in terrible battle, a battle that had occurred almost one hundred years before he was born.  He would _not_ show it, but he suffered under Thorin’s shunning; the friendship that had been the fulcrum of his life, severed now, and perhaps forever.  For the first time, he truly wished to leave Thorin’s presence and return to the Shire, even to the Fell Winter.  Even to the time before, when the whole Shire had treated him as Thorin did now.  At least he didn’t care what gossiping hobbits thought.

He was in this state when they camped one evening by a burned out farmhouse.  Bilbo was vaguely aware that Gandalf and Thorin fought, but he did not care.  He gathered firewood and he waited for stew with the rest, and he wished to pop away from Thorin and never come back.  He ate his stew and brooded until Ori came back from taking stew to Fili and Kili, who were watching the ponies.  Thorin’s sister-sons, it seemed, had lost some of the ponies to a dozen mountain trolls, who camped near the wooded embankment.  They had remained behind to try to steal back the ponies, but Ori had thought they needed help.  Ori has a brain, Bilbo thought.  Those two boys against a dozen mountain trolls...

The company gathered their weapons and crept through the woods stealthily.  When they reached the remaining ponies, there was no sign of Fili and Kili; they had gone ahead, the fools.  Bilbo cursed silently.  Still, they crept, dividing and spreading through the woods, circling around and ever closer to the troll encampment.  When they reached it, Bilbo despaired to see that Fili and Kili had been captured; though it seemed there were only three trolls.  Some luck, after all: _only_ three trolls.  When the dwarves charged, Bilbo joined them; but he did not engage in a frontal assault.  He had learned some things from the wolves at the battle at Waymeet. 

Carefully, he crept around the sides of the battle, behind the trolls.  He drew his long knife along the back of the first one’s knee, though it was harder than it looked, then dashed towards the second.  Bilbo had the experience now to know how tough the skin of a mountain troll was, and the first one had fallen into the second as he lost his balance.  So he thought the second would be easier; but instead he found he had to move quickly just to keep from being smashed underneath the two trolls as they stumbled.  Caught between the embankment at his back and the trolls in front, Bilbo was caged in, and an unlucky brush with one of the bumbling trolls had left him bruised and dizzy.  Still, he sought his chance; and he thought he had it, until the second troll pushed the one Bilbo had hamstrung entirely away.  Bilbo had room to move now, but he was also exposed; and before he knew it the second troll had him in hand, though Bilbo made him pay for it until his knife was knocked away.  That was it, then.  Bilbo shuddered to see Thorin’s face as he dropped his sword.

Luckily for the dwarves, there are smarter creatures than mountain trolls.  They knew what dwarves were; but they had never seen a hobbit, and they were curious.  Well, the two he had not hamstrung were curious.  The one he had hamstrung clutched his leg and moaned and wanted to kill Bilbo first, slowly and painfully.  The other two ignored him for now.  Bilbo did his best to distract them until dawn, and then Gandalf came.

As the dwarves gathered their weapons and went to explore the trolls’ hideaway with Gandalf, Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes.  He stepped forward to speak to Thorin, but Thorin turned away yet again.  Bilbo thought then, for the first time, of leaving of his own volition.  He might be pulled to Thorin, but he did not need to stay with him.  He accomplished nothing, and he did not think he could persuade the company away from this mad quest.  If he thought he could have, then he would; but he knew dwarves.  Unless they died on the way first, they were going to die at the mountain; but go all the way they would.

Gandalf found him sullenly kicking a stone troll.  He offered him another long knife, of elven make, far superior to the one his mother had given him.  Bilbo took it with thanks.  “It is elven steel,” Gandalf explained.  “It will glow with a blue light when orcs or goblins are near.”  Bilbo nodded.

“I thank you,” he said.  “It is hobbit-sized, but I am a hobbit, after all.”

He was glad of his new long knife, but he did not have a chance to use it against the orcs that came upon them then, riding on wargs.  Instead he must run, and blush with fury that Thorin would nod to Kili—that babe—to lift his bow against the warg that trapped them, and not him.  Then they were running again, and he was using his bow now, until Gandalf called them, and Thorin yelled “Bilbo,” and “Kili,” and then grabbed him bodily and shoved him down a rocky slide into a deep crevice between the rocks.  But as they stood and checked their bruised bodies, Thorin turned away from him once more.  Bilbo fell into the dwarven line, but his daze had lifted.  He supposed battle would do that.  He could hear Fili and Kili whispering behind him, and Thorin in deep discussion with Gandalf ahead.  He was aware of the tiny crack above that allowed sunlight to shine down upon them, and the coolness of the rock around them.  And he thought, for what seemed like the first time in weeks; and Bilbo was a well-read hobbit with a fondness for maps.  Rivendell...he thought.  We go to Rivendell, and his heart cheered to think it.

***

 

After dinner, Kili cornered Bilbo, and Fili was not far behind.

“You use a bow like an elf,” Kili said.

“He means it as a compliment,” Fili assured Bilbo.

“Good,” Bilbo said.  “I took it as one.”  Kili nodded, and Bilbo smiled to see this earnest young dwarf, Dis’ son.

“Are all hobbits such archers?”  Kili asked.  “Only, I should have tested my skills in the Shire, but I did not think it!  It seemed such a peaceful place.”  Bilbo nodded.

“It is, usually,” he agreed.  “And some hobbits enjoy archery, though more don’t.  But I,” and here he checked that Thorin was not watching to yell at him, but Thorin was gone, “learned from Balin.”

Fili crowed.  “Dwarf-taught!” he bragged.

Kili smiled, and his resemblance to Frerin struck Bilbo once again.  “Balin taught me too,” he said.  He kicked the ground.  “He said I was nearly the best he’d ever taught, but he claimed no credit for that one.  ‘Natural talent,’ he said.”  Kili looked up.  “He must have meant you, I think.”

“Well, from what I’ve seen, he certainly didn’t mean any other dwarf,” Bilbo laughed.  “You _are_ the best _dwarf_ I’ve seen, if it makes a difference.”  Kili beamed, and Fili threw his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders.

“As you can see,” he said, “it does!”


	12. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin cannot forgive Bilbo, but finds it difficult to resist him.

Lord Elrond was an excellent host, though the menu was different from what Thorin was accustomed to while guesting with elves.  He would have been glad of some venison on this table.  Still, Thorin was not entirely comfortable with Elrond.  He had thought Thranduil inscrutable.  Elrond’s calm mien made Thranduil seem histrionic, and he worried what Elrond might do once he suspected their quest.  Yet he must trust Gandalf when he said Elrond was their best hope for translating the map; so here they were.

Bilbo seemed pleased to come to Rivendell; he quickly sought out the elves, and Thorin could hear him using his Sindarin.  It was likely Bilbo had not had many opportunities to practice in the Shire.  Thorin turned away.  It did not matter what the burglar did.  The last few days had been wearying, and he was dirty, and he longed to rest before he must meet with Elrond and Gandalf.  He retreated to the private room he had been given:  the priviledge of rank, likely.  The rest of the party must share.

The bath was warm and welcoming, but he did not stay long; he was tired enough that lingering was dangerous. 

When he reentered his room, Bilbo lay on his bed, but it was not the Bilbo he had brought with him to Rivendell.  He seemed of an age with the Bilbo he had met in the Shire, about fifty, but he did not look like him.  His hair had grown longer again, and he had a braid on each side of his face, though they began to unravel without a bead or tie to keep them from doing so.  His entire posture was relaxed, almost languid; and Thorin felt his nudity like a blow in his gut.

“Thorin,” he said, and ah—Mahal— _stretched_ , and Thorin had to turn away.  Bilbo laughed, a low, wicked laugh.  “Come to bed, Thorin,” he coaxed.

“Leave me, burglar,” Thorin said.  He could not look, but he heard the rustle of bed sheets.

“I cannot leave,” Bilbo replied.  “I’m still out there, my younger self.”  And he sighed, such a soft sound...  “Ahh, Thorin,” he _moaned_ , and Thorin felt something dark and ugly growing inside.  That the _grocer_ should dare—but when he turned back to scathe the burglar, Bilbo was spread on his bed, his hand moving on his cock.  Any words Thorin wanted to say left him, and he had to turn to the door again; but his fury grew.  He would not be chased from his bed and his room and his rest by this hobbit.  He strode to the bed, intent on removing Bilbo—the burglar, he reminded himself—from it.  He picked him up by his arms and turned to carry him to the door, but— _Mahal help him_ —Bilbo laughed and wrapped his legs around Thorin’s waist, and _moved_.  Thorin stumbled to a stop and closed his eyes.  In that moment, he hated the hobbit in his arms.  He felt a small hand brush his hair back, away from his face; and two arms wrap around his neck.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered close to his mouth.  “Shall I tell you what I want you to do to me?”  Thorin shuddered and shook his head.

“I cannot forgive you,” he said.

“You do not have to forgive me today, Thorin,” Bilbo replied.  “Only _fuck_ me.  _Please._ ”

Thorin groaned.  “I hate you,” he whispered.  “You want this from me when I can never let go of it?”

Soft lips moved on his face.  “Hate me if you must,” Bilbo said.

Thorin tilted his head back, and soft lips moved to his neck.  “I will not do it,” he said.

Bilbo pulled back to whisper in his ear.  “Shall I tell you what the dwarf I was with when I came to you was doing to me?” He moved against Thorin again.  “I lost nothing when I came to you but the gold beads in my hair.”

Thorin growled and threw him on the bed.  He wanted— _Mahal_ , how he wanted—and he would take.  Anything else burned away.

Later, as he lay with his back to the hobbit, he hated himself as much as he hated the one lying next to him.  Bilbo pushed his hair aside and kissed his shoulder. 

“Why have you done this?” Thorin asked.

“I cannot answer you,” Bilbo replied softly, his mouth still moving across Thorin’s back.  “I can only say I wanted you.”  His hands tightened around Thorin’s body.  “I hate to see you hurt so, Thorin.”

Thorin felt weary.  “It is you who hurt me,” he said.

Bilbo sighed.  “In 29—“ he began to say. 

“Stop,” Thorin said.  “Stop.”  He closed his eyes.  He would not cry.  “Stay while I sleep.  You always leave me soon enough.” He felt Bilbo’s kisses move across his back again.

“I will stay as long as I can,” he said.

“Only while I sleep,” Thorin said.  There was a pause, and then Bilbo agreed.

“Only while you sleep,” he said.  Thorin breathed deep, and slept.

When he woke, Bilbo was there, watching him, a melancholy smile on his face.

“Go now,” Thorin said.  Bilbo kissed him, and Thorin felt—but he could not change who he was.  He turned his face away.  “Go,” he repeated.

“In 294—“ Bilbo began again, and then he was gone.  Thorin felt the cold.  Against his will, Thorin wondered what the burglar should warn him against.  _2941 is the year now_ , he thought.  _It could be anytime in the next decade._   He would not speculate.  It could hardly be worse than the troubles he had brought already.  He rose to dress and meet with Gandalf and Elrond.

He paused to see Bilbo, younger, in a corner of the large room in which the company gathered,  speaking quietly with Kili and Fili and Ori.  For a moment, he longed—but he was late, and he would not go to him.  Gandalf and Elrond waited for him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azanulbizar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the lovely Chunsa for helping me find the original Sherlock fics. They are now linked in chapter one if you would like to go read them; I can recommend both!

For one moment only, Bilbo stared into his own eyes, in his younger face.  I was so young then, he thought; and then he was gone, reappeared outside the gates of a mountain range he did not recognize.  Not Erebor, then, he thought; and hesitantly looked for Thorin.  He still did not know what he had done to hurt Thorin so, but if Bilbo had come to this place, then Thorin was here, and he would find him.  Before he did, a dark-haired dwarf in battle armour some fifty feet away turned and saw him.  It was Dwalin.

“Bilbo!” he cried, and came at a run.  Bilbo was grateful that Dwalin held back when he brought their foreheads together.  “We will be glad of your bow this day; the orcish scum have crept into Azanulbizar, and we mean to take it back for the dwarves.”  He stepped back a little.  “You are older than I have seen, excepting the once, when you were very old.  Nevertheless, I have your bow.”

“I will take it,” Bilbo said, “and a tunic, please.  Though I may be out of practice.”  Dwalin walked him over to the camp and his supplies.  Soon enough Bilbo was dressed and armed, and even had a helmet from somewhere; but no armour could be found that fit him.  Dwalin seemed perturbed.  “We should have thought of it,” he said.  Bilbo could say nothing.  Dwalin clearly expected him to fight, and he had not left his armchair but to go for walks or dig in his garden for ten years.  He had not the strength he had once had, and he _was_ out of practice, and he was full of fear.  He had fought before, but he had never been in a battle such as this.  He had heard the stories of Azanulbizar...oh, Valar!  He must find Thorin!

“Dwalin,” he cried, taking him by the shoulders, “where is Thorin?  I must find him!”

“He sits in the war conference with his father and grandfather, and Balin, and the other generals,” Dwalin said.  “I don’t know...ah—there,” he pointed.  Bilbo ran, as he had never run in all his life, panting and cursing his sedentary life.

“Thorin, Prince Thrain,” he cried.  “Stop!”  He finally reached the small group.  “Wait!”

The king, King Thror, Bilbo remembered, though he had never met him before, looked askance to Prince Thrain.  “We invite hobbits to our council of war, now, Thrain?” he asked.  Prince Thrain bowed to the king.

“Father, this hobbit is a dear and trusted advisor to me,” Thrain said.  “I beg your leave.”  The king frowned, but he nodded.  Thorin, who had said nothing yet, looked pleadingly at his father, who shook his head.  Thorin looked disappointed but he did not argue.

“Prince Thrain,” Bilbo began, “is this Moria?”  Thrain nodded.

“In Westron and Sindarin it is known as such, but in our language it is Azanulbizar.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, but Thrain put his hand over Bilbo’s mouth.

“Stop,” he said.  “Say not a word; only nod or shake your head.”  Bilbo nodded.  Thrain continued.

“Do not tell me; you will only answer my questions.”  Bilbo nodded again.

“Have you ever come to us before, to warn us, of anything?”  Bilbo shook his head.

“Then you will not warn us now,” Thrain said.

“But—“ Bilbo replied.

“Stop,” Thrain said.  “I know Thorin has told you; you warned us of the coming of Smaug.  You have warned us before, Bilbo; but it was a danger to you, and each time you disappeared.  It took many attempts.  If you try to warn us of danger in this battle, you will be gone; and moreover, it is unlikely you will succeed.”  Bilbo felt his eyes fill with tears.  He blinked them away.

“I must try,” he said.

Thrain clapped him on the shoulders.  “Brave Bilbo,” he said.  “But let us try this.  As before, you will not speak, only nod for yes or no.  I will ask you questions.”

Bilbo nodded.  His whole body tensed with fear.  Had they enough time?  Would this work?

Thrain began.  “First:  does Thorin die or is he injured in this battle?” he asked.  Bilbo shook his head.

“Second:  does Durin’s Bane come to the battle?”  Bilbo thought.  What was Durin’s Bane?  He did not think so.  He shook his head.

“Good,” Thrain said.  “So far, this works.  But you have more for me to ask?”

Bilbo nodded frantically. Thrain thought.

Slowly, so slowly, he continued.  “The mines of Moria may not remain in the hands of the orcs, Bilbo.  They are too dear to dwarven history,”—here Bilbo shook his head—“they _are_ , Bilbo,” Thrain insisted.  “And they are too close to the dwarven colony at Emyn Duir.  Already, men begin to call sections of the Greenwood near here Mirkwood instead.  They are an evil upon the land.”  Bilbo pursed his lips and his tears fell freely.

“This battle happens, Bilbo,” Thrain said, as Bilbo shook his head frantically.  “Bilbo, it does.  Though the cost may be high.  We cannot stop now.”

Bilbo grabbed Thrain’s hands and pleaded.  “Please, Thrain, no!  Please!”  He gathered himself, but Thrain placed his hand across Bilbo’s mouth again.

“It will not work, Bilbo,” he said gently.  “You have warned us this day that there is a danger, and we will be on our guard; but say anymore and you will be gone and you will not have time to try again.  I can sense it.”  Bilbo only shook his head and cried, and held tight to Thrain.  He felt a child again.  Thrain returned to the council.

Bilbo retreated to the camp, and he cried until he could not cry anymore.  Thorin found him there.

“Bad, then,” he said.

Bilbo nodded.

“It killed you, I think,” Thorin said.  “Before.  Later.  When you told us about the dragon.”

“Worth it,” Bilbo said.  “Thorin—“

“Will you not stay with us for this battle?” Thorin asked.  “Say more and you are gone.  I would know you guard my back.”

“I am too old and it has been too long since I held a bow,” said Bilbo.

“No,” said Thorin, and he stepped closer.  “You are a hobbit in his prime.  If it has been a long time since you held a bow, still your skill will not have gone.”  He looked around quickly, then pulled Bilbo into the shade of a nearby tent.  He tilted Bilbo’s chin up.  “I have dreamt of you,” he said, and kissed him.

For one moment only, Bilbo was still; and then he pushed Thorin away.

“You have not dreamt of me,” he said.  “You have dreamt of the boy I was.”

“I have known you when you were eight and when you were eleventy-eleven,” Thorin said.  “You were at my birth and I hope that you will be by my side as I die.  _I know you,_ _Bilbo._   Believe me when I say it.”  And he moved to kiss Bilbo again.  Bilbo backed away.

“Thorin,” he said.  “You are too young.”  Thorin snorted.

“I am sixty-nine,” he said.

Bilbo shook his head.  “Too young,” he repeated, and ducked out of the tent into the fading light.  He must find Balin, and find a place to sleep.

On the morrow, Thorin sought him out again.  He said nothing, only stood and looked at Bilbo.  Bilbo thought back to the Fell Winter, and that night Adalgrim had told him.  _I think on you, Bilbo_.  He considered it, considered Thorin.  He did love Thorin, but Thorin had always been younger than him; they had been children together.  He had not thought of him in this way before...  Though that was not true.  Lately, he admitted, he had; since the shock of seeing Thorin Oakenshield, grown into his full glory, stepping through his round green door; and he could see the promise of that Thorin in this one before him.  It must have shown in his face, for Thorin seemed to grow confident.  Still he said nothing, only leaned in gently until their foreheads kissed.

“If you still want me after the battle,” Bilbo whispered.

“I could want no one else,” Thorin whispered back.  Then he seemed to understand Bilbo’s words.  “Bilbo...” his hands gripped Bilbo’s upper arms tightly.  “How bad?” 

Bilbo shook his head and cried.  Thorin’s hands tightened painfully on his arms.  Bilbo drew breath.  How could he say...

“I will guard two backs today,” he said.  He felt his skin stretch strangely for a moment, tight and thin over his body, but nothing happened; he was still here.  Thorin nodded. 

“Neither will be yours,” Bilbo said.  Thorin’s grip grew crushingly strong for a moment, and then he drew back.

“Who?” he said.  “No—you cannot tell me.  Mahal.  Mahal.”  Thorin let his head drop onto Bilbo’s shoulders.  “Mahal,” he said.  “Sometimes, it is a curse.”

Bilbo nodded.  Together they left the tent to prepare for the coming battle.

***

 

Though it had been years since Bilbo had neglected his bow for his comfortable armchair, he found that day that he had not lost his skill.  His arms began to tremble, yes; he flagged; but when he shot, his shot went true.  Thorin had pointed him to a protected point, with a good view of the gate.  From there, he hoped to be able to stop the future—the past—of which he had been told.  He had not understood it with the dragon either.  He did not know if he could change what happened here, but it seemed he had before—he would in the future—he did not know.  He would try.

He found the orcs terrifying.  The waves of them, rolling out of the gates, so vast they were...  He had ten quivers; he was sure he would use them all given the chance.  The orcs did not seem much for archery, though; they would not pick him off that way.  He prayed his position was not overrun.  He prayed he could protect Thrain and Frerin both; he felt sick thinking of it.  He would not think on Thorin’s grandfather.  He would do what he could, but he would protect those he cared about first.  He did not think he could save the king.  But Thrain had not been killed here; he had disappeared.  Bilbo had one death and one—what? abduction? to prevent.  Both Frerin and Thrain were to his right, closer the center of the field.  Valar.  He took his shot.  Again, and again.

At one point in the battle, he realized that orcs had begun to try to climb to him, and some threw rocks; but none ever reached him.  He chanced a glance.  Dwalin stood some seven feet below him and to his left.  He had exchanged his axe for a heavy war hammer, and he crushed any that came Bilbo’s way.  Thorin must have sent him.  He turned back to the battle.  He set arrow to string and found his mark.

The sea in the middle of the gate frothed and broke first one way and then another; and Bilbo went through one quiver, and another.  Many orcs died that day from his arrows; and Thrain and Frerin still fought.  And then Bilbo saw him:  Azog, stalking from the underworld of Moria, to meet the king.  Bilbo shook.  He would not watch.  He did not guard that back today.  He pulled back his string.  He found his target.  He took his shot.  Again.

He did see the orc that cut Frerin down, too late.  A large surge of orcs had come forth with Azog, and Frerin and Thrain’s position was overrun.  Thrain fought with sword and axe; Bilbo had never seen such weapons work.  Frerin stood at his back, two swords at the ready.  Bilbo shot his arrows as fast as he could put them to string.  Orc after orc went down, and still more came.  He could not shoot fast enough.  Bilbo finished a quiver and reached for the next and looked up with his arrow on the string and saw the spear as it went through Frerin’s chest.  Thrain, he could not see.  He wanted to scream.  He searched the battlefield.  He did not see him.

“Dwalin,” he yelled.  “Go!”  He pointed him to the prince’s last position.  Dwalin looked, and went, clearing his way with that hammer.

Bilbo put his arrow to his string, and looked for a shot.  If he could not save Frerin or Thrain, still he would do some damage.  He looked for Azog.  He cursed.  Azog’s blade swung at the king.  The momentum was there.  It could not miss.  Still, Bilbo had a shot.  He took it, and though Azog killed King Thror, he stumbled back with an arrow through his right eye.  Bilbo looked for another shot, but sensed movement to his left.  He turned and his arrow left his string at point blank range.  The orcs had found him.  He dropped his bow.  Now he would need his knife.

He was tired, and he faltered often; but Thorin had chosen his position well.  The orcs could only come at him one way, and it was a slow climb, and narrow.  He did not know if he had stung too many from his safe perch or if they saw him as soft meat, but they continued to climb the suicidal route.  But then they fled; Thorin must have defeated Azog.  Bilbo turned his eyes to the center of the field; yes, the orcs dragged Azog away, his hand severed.  They fled the gate.  Thorin stood defiant, Oakenshield now.  Bilbo dropped to his knees and curled up like a child.  Valar.  He had done nothing.  Why had he been sent here if he could do nothing!  He rocked and rocked and found no comfort.

Yet he must go.  Perhaps Thrain could be found.  Certainly Thorin would need him now.  He cleaned and sheathed his knife; he gathered his gear, noting absently that only one half quiver remained.  He felt a dark satisfaction at the thought.  He turned to make the slow climb down.

He made his way to the site where Frerin lay, stopping only to hear from Dwalin that searchers had gone out already; Prince Thrain had not been found.

“Where do they look?”  Bilbo asked. 

“All the battlefield, to all sides of the gate,” Dwalin said.

“They will not find him there,” Bilbo said.  Dwalin sucked in a breath.

“You saw the orcs take him?” he asked.

“I saw nothing,” Bilbo answered.  He looked at Dwalin, only looked.  “I failed today,” he said.  “I failed.”

“Many orcs are dead at your hands today,” Dwalin exclaimed.  “How is that failure?”

But then Thorin was racing over the battlefield to them.  “Bilbo!” he said, and then again, slowly, “Bilbo.”

Thorin’s eyes travelled over the ground before him.  It was as Bilbo had known it would be.  His eyes fell on Frerin, and the world changed.  He fell to his brother’s side and lifted his body into his arms.  Still kneeling there, he looked to Bilbo.

“Whose backs did you guard today, Bilbo?” he demanded.  “Whose backs?” he screamed, his handsome face twisted and ugly.

Bilbo sobbed.

Thorin turned back to Frerin and began to gently wipe away the sweat and grime of battle.

“Leave,” he said.  “Leave me.”

Bilbo dropped his head.

Thorin did not look at him, but he screamed.  “Leave me!”

Bilbo choked down his tears.  “In 29—“ he said, and was gone.

Thorin jerked to hear Bilbo’s voice cut off mid-word, but Bilbo was not there to know.

***

_He did not know at what moment his thoughts of Bilbo began to change.  Thorin only knew that he began to dream of him.  In his dreams Bilbo came not while he was in the midst of his family or at weapons practice or tutoring or even to Thranduil’s table, but as he lay alone in his room at night, and he did not appear standing several feet away, but formed within the circle of Thorin’s arms.  Thorin need not use his imagination to picture Bilbo; Bilbo never came to him clothed.  And he came only for this reason, not for any obscure magic, only to move against Thorin until he was maddened.  Sometimes there was a clawed scar on Bilbo’s shoulder for Thorin to kiss, sometimes only smooth skin:  it did not matter.  Always, forever, he knew it:  it could only be Bilbo._

_He would wake in the morning and hope that Bilbo would come that day, that he might finally be able to speak; but Bilbo did not come, and did not come, until he came on the eve of battle._

_The worst of it was that Thorin still dreamed of him after sending him away.  And it seemed that in so doing he had broken the magic that brought Bilbo, for it was one hundred fifty years before Thorin saw him again, standing on the other side of a round green door._


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to Emyn Duir, and to the Shire.

 

It had been almost thirty years since Thorin was last the highest-ranking dwarf among those around him, but then he had always known that his father and grandfather lived.  Now he was king.  He had always known it would come; he had been complacent.  Foolishly he had never thought about the circumstances required for his kingship:  the deaths of both his grandfather and his father.  And now he had lost Frerin as well, all three, all at once.  He still hoped that Father might be found; his body was not among the dead on the field.  He would hope until he was given reason to hope no more.  But in the meantime, he must act as king.

The orcs were driven from the field, but his people had suffered such heavy losses... and Khazad-dûm was Grandfather’s dream more than his.  He ordered a retreat.  He hoped that with Moria free of the dark influence of the orcs that the murk that crept into the woods would lift as well, for his people’s home would remain Emyn Duir now.  He would not leave its warm halls for this place where they had shed so much dwarven blood, no matter its former glory.

The march to Emyn Duir was solemn; and their return met with many tears, only some of relief.  Many mourned that day.  Thorin did not know how he could face Mother or Dis.  He did not know how to say what he needed to tell them.

But he did not need to say anything at all.  Mother looked at his face and sank down on the sofa.  She looked behind him.

“Frerin, too?” she asked.  Thorin bowed his head.

“Oh, my son,” she said.  “Come here.”  They wept together.

He leaned a great deal on his mother in the next days.  Neither his fury nor his sorrow would abate, and he must take up more responsibility than he had ever held before.  Still, he could not be the king Grandfather had been.  He entered the council room that first morning back in Emyn Duir, took one look at Grandfather’s advisors and dismissed them all.  He did not want those bootlickers.  Instead he sent for Balin and Lady Doerthe.

Balin was grumpy as he entered.  “There’s too much to do; I can’t be leaving the barracks or the training grounds right now,” he complained.  “If you need me, you’ll have to come to me, I’m afraid.”  Thorin only looked at him, and did not speak.  He would wait for Lady Doerthe, or Balin would squirm his way out of it.  He did not have to wait long.

As she entered, Lady Doerthe dropped into a curtsy.  “Your majesty,” she said.  Thorin could see it hit Balin; his face went white.  He bowed, but he did not speak.  Thorin gestured them to rise.

“I require advisors I trust and who trust me,” Thorin said.  Balin nodded.  Lady Doerthe said nothing.

“I can see that you might not want to keep all of your grandfather’s council.  Who will you send down?” Balin said. 

“I will keep none of them,” Thorin said.  Balin’s eyebrows rose.

“None, laddie?”  He glanced at Lady Doerthe and winced.  “Your majesty,” he added. 

“None of them,” Thorin repeated.

Lady Doerthe curtsied again.  “I am honored and humbled, your majesty.”

Balin looked at her, then looked at Thorin, then shook his head.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he said.  “There are far better choices than me, laddie.  Your majesty.” 

Thorin looked at him.  Balin shook his head.

“I can’t do it, Thorin,” he said.  “I’m too young; I have no political allies; I’m needed training our warriors—“

Thorin slammed his hand down on the table.  He breathed deep.  After a moment, he spoke again.

“I require advisors _I_ trust and who trust _me_ ,” he said again.  He looked hard at Balin, who after a moment, sighed and bowed.

“At your service, your majesty,” he said.

Two decades later, when it became clear that the Mirkwood would swallow Emyn Duir after all, he was glad to have their advice as the dwarves of Erebor sought yet another home in Belegost.  Thorin sometimes marked the distance between the Blue Mountains and the Shire on his maps, but that was all he allowed himself.  He could not forget so easily as that.

 

***

 

Bilbo fell on his back, and the ring fell onto his finger, and the world went strange and he popped back to Bag End at the same time.  He was nude as always, _but the ring was still on his finger._   He stared at it in wonder for a moment; then took it off, put it on the table, and went to find something to wear.  Why should this ring come but never his clothing?  He had never understood this magic, and he never would.  He meant to tell Mama about it, or Papa, but somehow he never did tell them about the ring.  It always seemed to slip his mind.

Thorin hated him now.  He was not feeling particularly fond of Thorin either.  Thorin had sometimes been thoughtless, but he had never been cruel before; and never had he looked through Bilbo as if Bilbo were not there; or away, as if Bilbo were some ugliness in the street he wished to avoid.

  He did tell Papa about Thorin, and about what he had learned from Balin about that long ago battle in Moria.

“He is very bitter, Papa; he lost his father and brother and grandfather all on that day, and then I did not go to him for so, so long.  I do not know why I did not go; I never know why or when or how.  It seems very unfair to blame me,” Bilbo said.

“It seems to have been hard years for your Thorin,” Papa said.  “It would be very easy to be bitter.”

“He is not my Thorin,” Bilbo said.  “If he were mine, he would come to me sometimes.  I am always the one to go to him.”  Papa looked at him curiously.

“Do you think that makes a difference?” he asked.  “Perhaps you are his, but he is also yours.  You have been friends a long time.”

“We have been tied together a long time,” Bilbo replied.  “but I am not sure we are friends any longer.”  He paused.  “He called me a grocer!” he said indignantly.  _And he would not look at me_ , he thought.

He was glad later that he did not travel at all in the next ten years, for those were the last years of his parents’ lives; and he was able to be there with them until the end.  He was very grateful for the friendship and support of Adalgrim then.

“I can’t say I know what it’s like for you,” Adalgrim said, “but I care, and so does Cornelia.  You will not be allowed to shut yourself away at Bag End.”

“I can’t now, really,” Bilbo said.  “I feel them here and I don’t want to leave in case that fades away.”

“Did it fade when your father died?”  Adalgrim asked.  Bilbo thought about it.

“No, though I didn’t think on it every day after a time,” he said.

“Then your mother’s death won’t change that,” Adalgrim replied.  “You are not to become a recluse, Mad Baggins.”

Much of his time then went to Adalgrim and his Cornelia, and their little Paladin, and baby Esmeralda, and the sweet girls that followed.  When he was at Bag End, his time was spent in his study, looking over his maps and reading his many books.  Since his parents’ deaths and the long pause in his travels, combined with the support of the Tooks and the Hill, slowly Mad Baggins became Master Baggins, and he grew respectable.  Any strangeness was excused as his scholarliness.  There was a part of him that was glad of it; he was a hobbit, after all, and half Baggins; and he had never really been respectable before.  It was nice to be able to go to Hobbiton market day without suffering the whispers and looks.  And if he tired of being the Shire’s respectable Baggins of Bag End, he could always wear his gold ring; he had learned he was invisible when he wore it.  He wished he had learned it while his mother still lived; she would have thought it very funny.  There was so much strange magic in the world, and it was odd to think of a hobbit with a ring of such power.

He _was_ glad he did not travel in those years; but nevertheless he missed his dwarven family, and over time he especially missed Thorin.  It had always been easier for him to forgive Thorin than the other way round, and it was hard to be angry with someone he never saw, and he was never sure why Thorin was so angry with him.  Perhaps if he had known it would have seemed more real.  As his anger faded, his longing to travel to Thorin returned; but still he did not travel.  For another decade yet he did not travel.  If Thorin had not told him how he had warned them of Smaug’s coming, he would have thought he was done with it; only he hadn’t given any of those warnings yet.

And as it turned out, the next time he saw Thorin, Bilbo had not travelled to him.  Twenty years later, Thorin came to him, there in Bag End; and this time, when Bilbo travelled with him, it was the normal way.  If by normal, one meant by pony.  But though Thorin’s anger had not faded, Bilbo could not stay behind when Thorin went. 

Strangely, whichever way and whenever he travelled from then on, if that gold ring was on him, it went with him wherever he went, as if it wanted to come along; though in those years he mostly used it to hide from his cousin Otho’s awful wife.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azog and the White Warg.

 

Bilbo popped into a world of smoke and fire and screams.  Orcs and wargs paced the ground in front of him; and he immediately unclenched his fist and slipped his ring onto his finger and looked for a safe place to run.  Behind him were pine trees, hanging precariously by their roots over a great cliff.  Dwarves hung from the branches.  Ahh...It was _this_ time.  He thought the heroics had been overemphasized and the danger understated when the story had been told him.  _Idiotic dwarves,_ he thought.  Bilbo took two steps to the pine trees before he realized Thorin was not among the dwarves who dangled dangerously close to falling.  They do not, he reassured himself, but faced with the tableau in front of him, he couldn’t make himself believe it.  But if Thorin was not there...Bilbo spun around.  _They do not fall_ , he reminded himself.

And now, facing the wargs and orcs, he saw what they circled around:  Thorin, clenched in the jaws of the white warg, shaken and thrown almost unconscious to the ground.  Automatically he reached for a bow that was not there.  Valar!  _You know this story_ , he told himself.  _Do not be stupid if you can help it._   But how could he...There!

Bilbo dashed through the brief opening between two of the wargs circling close, closing in on Thorin’s helpless body.  _The fool_ , he thought.  It had sounded like an act of great courage and defiance.  He supposed it was, but it was also an act of great stupidity.  What had he thought he would do, one dwarf against these many?  _He did not think_ , Bilbo thought.  _Until this moment I did not understand how obsessed he was with seeing Azog dead._

 _And I am just as stupid,_ he realised as he dashed around the orc stalking towards Thorin.  He was painfully conscious of his own nudity.  None could see him; that did not matter; but he felt vulnerable and unprotected.   _Concentrate,_ he reprimanded himself.  _Where?  Where?  WHERE?  Valar,_ he thought.  _This is worse than the Fell Winter, worse than Azanulbizar._   The only hope he had lay in the fact that he had been told this story.  He prayed it were possible... _There!_

As the orc raised its blade to swing down on Thorin’s defenseless body, Bilbo reached Orcrist, and turned, and swung it through the orc’s neck.  The orc collapsed where he stood.  Bilbo, however, had been unprepared for how light Orcrist was and how sharp the edge.  He swung around in a circle from his own momentum and nearly stumbled over Thorin’s lifeless-seeming body.  He fought the urge to confirm that Thorin lived; he _knew_ he lived.  He must trust it.  He turned, Orcrist in hand, trembling in fear.  The white warg was only five feet from him, but it stalked forward slowly.  Azog, on its back, seemed bewildered; but nevertheless Bilbo had to fight not to run.  _I am too old for this,_ he thought, _and I am doing it anyway_.  He panted.  _Too old._   _But they cannot see you_ , he reminded himself.  He lifted Orcrist, and slid it smoothly into the skull of the white warg, which collapsed forward in death.  Azog tumbled off its back, screaming in rage.

 _That was too easy,_ he thought, but then the blade would not come out of the warg’s skull; and Azog was climbing to his feet, only ten feet from Thorin.  Bilbo tugged as hard as he could, but the blade only slid a few inches.  Again and again he pulled, and tried to frantically watch for Azog at the same time.  He braced his feet against the warg’s skull, and Orcrist slid more smoothly forward; but it was too long for him and did not come all the way free.  Azog was standing, though he had only moved a few steps forward.  He crouched, and held his mace at the ready, and swung it around his body.  His face was a mix of confusion and fury.  _This must be so strange_ , Bilbo thought, and ridiculously, _What kind of weapon **is** that thing?  Is it even a mace at all?_   Bilbo huffed.  _Pay attention_ , he scolded himself.  He braced his feet against the ground, and tugged.  Again, only a few inches of Orcrist came free.  He did it again.  Finally, Orcrist came loose and Bilbo tumbled to the ground.  He scrambled to his feet and looked to Azog.

He had not moved far, but still crouched and circled, swinging his weapon warily.  _Why has he not moved?_ Bilbo wondered, and then he realised.  _His eye._   One-eyed Azog did not dare move forward against an unseen foe, his vision spoiled here, with only the fire behind him to light the night.  He thought perhaps that arrow at Azanulbizar had saved both his and Thorin’s life this night.  Should they make it through the rest of this...Though if he had had both eyes, it would not have helped him against Bilbo’s ring.  Carefully, Bilbo stepped between Azog and Thorin, Orcrist held high in front of him.  He felt tiny compared to Azog’s huge frame, but Azog moved only inches at a time.  Bilbo panted in relief.  Thank Valar.  He steadily backed up to Thorin’s motionless body.  And then Azog drew back and screamed with rage.  The eagles came.  Bilbo watched Azog a moment longer, but Azog drew back.  They were saved.  He turned to Thorin and looked to slide Orcrist into its scabbard.  _Oh, my hairy foot_.  Bilbo felt like screaming in frustration.  He had forgotten.  Thorin wore the scabbard on his back.  Bilbo chanced a glance at Azog.  He had moved no closer; but still drew back, his eyes on the skies.  The eagle swooped down.  Bilbo threw himself onto Thorin’s body and closed his eyes as he felt the eagle’s talons close around him.

Bilbo had been terrified as the eagle lifted them into the air, but the trip to the Carrock was surprisingly comforting to him.  Sandwiched between Thorin’s body and the eagle, he was held securely; and he could see that Thorin breathed, though slowly.  Bilbo laid his head on Thorin’s chest, and listened for his heartbeat the whole way to the Carrock.  As the eagle set them down gently, and Gandalf rushed towards Thorin, Bilbo pressed a kiss gently to his lips. 

“In 2980,” he whispered, and then he was gone, back to Bag End, with Frodo staring in surprise.

“You can hear someone explain something,” Frodo said, “but it’s certainly different seeing it for yourself.”  He laughed.  “I would have liked to been there for the time at the Old Took’s birthday party.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to the Greenwood.

 

Thorin had been saddened to see that the murk had spread so far up into the Greenwood; he had been glad of an elven escort through the threatening forest.  He had been less pleased to learn that Thranduil had no intention of letting him pass beyond the elfking’s halls.

He had not been Thranduil’s guest for scores of years.  It was not so different, but that this time he was not there willingly.  That made all the difference.  Thranduil had even given him his same little room he had had before, in the time he had come to the Greenwood in exile from Erebor.  He still invited him to dine of an evening, and the banquets still served overly much venison.  Legolas had attempted to speak to him several times, but now chose to sit further away and ignore him.  Thorin thought that was probably his own fault.  He felt shame for his treatment of his old friend, but still he snapped and snarled and felt trapped.

His company took their cue from him; though none went so far as to be rude, even Fili and Kili and irrepressible Bofur were somber.  They did not interact with the elves, but stayed together in quiet groups.  For their part, the elves allowed this; and the halls of Thranduil Elfking were not the merry place Thorin remembered.  Only Thranduil seemed the same.  As for him, he did not persist in attempting to persuade Thorin away from his quest; he only would not let him go.  He seemed to think he could be as stubborn as a dwarf.  Thorin could have assured him that he was wrong, were he speaking to Thranduil.  But the elves are long-lived, and did have patience.  Thranduil seemed in no hurry.  Thorin might die in Thranduil’s halls after decades of captivity; he would not be set free to disturb the dragon in Erebor.  Thorin would not be released until he changed his mind, and that he would not do.

It was into this mess that Bilbo came again.  He seemed very glad to see Legolas, and Thranduil; and they for their part seemed pleased to see him again as well.  It was ridiculous for Thorin to be jealous, but he was.  Bilbo greeted them cheerfully; he stepped carefully around Thorin, and Thorin did not see him often.  When he did see him, often he watched the river.  Thorin was reminded of the time they had fought, all those years ago, in these very halls. 

And he knew well what drove Bilbo away from him, but he had lived with his anger for a very long time.  It was a part of him now, and he did not know who he would be without it.  He did not know if it was possible to let it go.  His brother and his father were dead, and Bilbo had not stopped it.  His grandfather had died in a horrible way and Bilbo had not even _tried_ to stop it.  _Two backs_ , he had said.  _I guard two backs this day._   But he had not done it.  He had not done it, and Thorin had come out of that terrible battle to even worse news; and then he had lost Bilbo too, of his own volition.  Four that he had loved, gone that day.  He did not know if he could forgive it, even now.  He did not know whom that made more cursed, him or Bilbo.

That evening at dinner, Thranduil told Bilbo that he was free to come and go as he pleased, “so long as he did not join in this madness.”  Bilbo nodded.

“I have said it was madness from the first,” he said.  “No one sane could choose to fight Smaug with so few in number.  They will all die in the attempt.”

Thranduil sat back, satisfied, to ask Bilbo _again_ about his magic.  Bilbo had no new answers for him, only a puzzle.

“I have seen myself,” he said, “for moments only; but how is such a thing possible?  Someday, will I find myself living the same days in two places; or even be doubled in the same place?  So you see I have no new answers, only new questions.”

“And has your knowledge of the future given you no warnings regarding this venture?  Surely our friend would be forced to listen then,” Thranduil said.

Bilbo looked down and shook his head.  “I give no more warnings,” he said.  “I can change nothing but what has already changed.”  He paused.  “I think perhaps it was fated, and that was the sole purpose of my travelling:  to warn of Smaug’s coming.  I have not yet completed that warning.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows.  “But it has been near two centuries since the warning was given,” he said.

Again, Bilbo shook his head.  “Thorin told me once that I came to him when I was very old with the last warning, the day before Smaug came.  I must live my life until that day.  Until then, I suppose, I may travel.”

The table was very quiet for the remainder of the meal.

Late that night, Bilbo came to him.

“I thought you gave no more warnings,” Thorin sneered.

“I do not,” Bilbo replied.  “I have come to help you.  In walking these halls, I have seen what I think is a way out of here for you.”

For a moment, Thorin was struck dumb.  When he could speak again, he said, “Did you not say that you thought this madness?”

“I do think it,” Bilbo replied.  “But it is your decision what you will do.”

“You think it will kill me,” Thorin said.  “You would send me to my death.  You have said it yourself.  You will _not_ be free of me.  You will not be free of me until your death, not mine.”

For a moment, Bilbo’s face was so sad, and then it became again an impassive mask.  “I have not seen your death.  And if you go to die in Erebor, then so do I; for I go with you.”

Thorin looked at him.  “You know you live to be old, for a hobbit.  I may die while you travel back to your Shire in an instant.”

For a moment Bilbo’s voice rose.  “I cannot control it!” he said, and then he regained his temper.  “And it is true that I may go when there is danger that you will not be able to avoid.  But if I can, I will stay; and it may well be that I will die with you.”  He turned to study the wall hanging.  “Do you wish my help?  To leave?  I warn you, you may not like it.”

“I thought you gave no more warnings,” Thorin repeated.

“It is not that kind of warning,” Bilbo replied.

Thorin thought, but he had no answer.  “I must think on it,” he said.

Bilbo turned to go.

“Wait,” Thorin said.  Bilbo turned and waited, but he watched the tapestry again and not Thorin.  He waited a long time, for Thorin did not know how to say—he did not know what he wanted to say, even.  Finally, Thorin spoke.

“I would fix what is wrong between us, if I could,” he said.  Bilbo turned to look at him then.  “If I knew how I might let go of my anger.  If I could stop blaming you for what happened that day.”  Bilbo looked away again.  His eyes shone with unshed tears.

“You have always been good at sharing truth with me, even if it is unpalatable,” Bilbo said.  Again he turned to go.

“Will you say nothing else to me?” Thorin demanded.  When Bilbo turned again, the tears were falling, but his eyes blazed.

“What would you have me say?” he asked angrily.  “I have heard only justification for a grudge you have held for one hundred forty years.  I do not think anything I can say will convince you to think otherwise.”  He held back a sob.  “And I _will_ not apologize because I could not change it!”

“My brother and my father are dead because of you!”  Thorin shouted.

“Your father and brother are dead because of a pointless battle for a mountain you cannot live in!”  Bilbo shouted back.  “And orcs killed them, not I!”

“You knew it!”  Thorin returned.  “You knew it would happen and you did not warn us!”

Bilbo screamed then, a wordless thing, painful to hear.  “Why do I do this?” he demanded.  He collapsed to the floor, his face in his hands.  “I cannot change what I did that day.  I have thought long on it; and I wish I could.  But I cannot, and I do not know what I _would_ change.”

Thorin wanted to go to him, but he could not move.  He had not moved for all this time, and he could not begin now.

Bilbo sobbed, but he continued.  “You blame me for what I did everything to prevent.”  He sobbed.  “I did everything I could to prevent it.”  He cried some minutes more, collapsed there on the floor, while Thorin stood and could not move.  Finally he was done.  He stood and looked to Thorin, his eyes red.

“I loved them too, as I loved you; and I lost all three of you that day as well,” he said, and this time he left the room.  Thorin stood alone.  He thought that he was not the only one who could speak unpalatable truth.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape to the Lonely Mountain.

 

It was so strange, Bilbo thought; Thorin’s heart had broken one hundred forty years ago, and Bilbo’s just this month; and it had happened on the same day.  As he wandered invisibly through Thranduil’s halls he had a lot of time to think.  He hated himself for it, but part of every day while he wore the ring he sat and watched Thorin.  He was a fool.  He was pathetic.  He did it anyway. 

He began to travel a new way, then, from Thorin now to Thorin in the past.  The warnings, he realised; and he began to try to tell Ris and Thrain about the coming danger.  The physical toll was hard, harder than he had thought to hear Thorin tell it.  Often he came back to find his nose bleeding, or a blood vessel burst in his eye.  His heart would pound too fast, and he would be sick to his stomach.  His skin always felt parched and thin, and stretched too taut across his bones; and he bruised easily.  He wore his ring then, or hid in the bowels of the elven hall until he looked healthy again.  He would not have anyone know what he did.  He would not let anyone stop him.  He would not rely on the fact that the warnings had happened in the past; they would not happen then unless he gave them now.

Sometimes he went there and back so fast it made him dizzy.  But finally he finished the warning, all except the last day.  He had decided Thorin was right.  If he went at such an advanced age, to warn Thorin one more time, he could not survive it.  It did not matter. Eleventy-eleven was a goodly age.  He was glad to save the dwarves he so loved.

When he realised as he watched the river that it could be an escape route for the dwarves, he thought long before he went to Thorin.  Telling him felt like sending Thorin to his death.  He understood why Thranduil kept Thorin here; still it would not do.  Whatever else Thorin was, he should always be free.  Bilbo would not be party to keeping him trapped.  Before he spoke to Thorin, though, he went to Legolas.

“I intend to help Thorin escape,” he said without prelude.  “I want you to help me.”

Legolas looked at him.  “You ask me to disobey my father in his own hall,” he said.

“He has given you no directive,” Bilbo corrected.  “I ask you to _circumvent_ your father in his own hall.”  Legolas laughed, but it was not his merry laugh.

“I do not see very much difference,” he said.

“Perhaps it is only a technicality,” Bilbo conceded.  “Then think of it this way:  I ask you to help free your friend from his captivity.  It has been a kind captivity, but nevertheless he is jailed.”

Legolas pursed his lips and looked away.  “I must think on it,” he said.

“You may for a time,” Bilbo replied.  “But do not think for too long.  Thorin must be to the mountain by Durin’s Day.”

Two days later Legolas came to him.  “I will feel guilty either way,” he said.  “I will help you.”

Only then did Bilbo go to Thorin, who proceeded to break open his heart anew; but who also listened to his plans for their escape—skeptically, but he listened; and soon they were on their way to the mountain.

 

***

 

Bilbo’s plan for their escape from Thranduil was madness, and Thorin thought that perhaps that was why it worked.  He and Bilbo moved carefully around each other.  Neither wanted to reignite the explosion from days previous.  The company was sickened and battered and bruised from their trip down the river, and so it was a silent camp that night.  Thorin intended to avoid Lake-town altogether.  The men might not have the memories of dwarves, but they might not welcome their return either.  Still they needed supplies.  Bilbo went into the town to purchase what they needed: ponies, and food, and speak much of his ‘hobbit touring expedition.’  The company was to go to the boats early in the morning, heavily cloaked.  Most balked at the second aspect of their ‘hobbit’ disguise, though Kili gloated.

“Shave my beard!”  Balin shouted.  “I have never done so, and I will not start now, not for all the gold in Erebor!”

Thorin raised an eyebrow.  “It is for all the gold in Erebor—well, for a fourteenth share of it.  And there is no hiding what you are with it.”

Bombur tried.  “’Tis a fine dwarven beard!” he said.

“Yes,” Bilbo replied.  “They are all fine, _dwarven_ beards.  And they will grow back!”

“T’will never be the same, laddie,” Balin mourned.  “T’will never be the same.”

 

***

 

Thorin found the trek to the mountain devastating.  The Desolation of Smaug spread from the ruins of Dale to as far as the company could see.  The entire mountainside was devoid of life.  Thorin did not know how the dragon spread its Desolation from inside the mountain; but somehow, though the dragon had not been seen in sixty years, still the countryside withered.  He only hoped it would not take sixty years to recover.  He looked around.  He hoped the Desolation could be healed at all.

As they rode that first day, Dwalin pulled him to the side so that they might speak in lowered voices and none could hear.

“What is it?” Thorin asked him.  “Do you see signs of the dragon?”  Dwalin shook his head.

“No,” he said.  “I meddle in things that are none of my business.”  He paused a moment.  “You and Bilbo spoke before our escape, and it went badly.”

“You are right,” Thorin said.  “You meddle, and it is not your business.”

“Perhaps it is not,” Dwalin retorted.  “But this much is:  you endanger our quest.  For all the time since that first year after Azanulzibar, you have put away your grief and you have focused on survival and on return to the Lonely Mountain; and now you do not.  Now your eyes are all for Bilbo; and maybe no one else sees it, but I know you.  You are as torn inside as you were after Moria.”

“I will never forgive him,” Thorin said.  “I cannot change.”  Dwalin sighed.

“In this one way you are stupid,” he said.  “Forgive him for what?  For the deaths of two out of countless dead on the battlefield that day?”  He pulled Thorin further to the side and stopped; and while the company gave them sidelong glances, none stopped to see what kept them. 

“Do you forget that I was with him on that day?” he demanded.  “He never stopped.  I have never seen the arrows fly so fast.  You know what he was at his prime—almost a match for Legolas—and he was nearly so good that day.  _Hundreds_ died from his arrows that day, and all his arrows went towards those orcs who sought Frerin and your Father.”

Thorin shook his head.  “I cannot forgive,” he said.  Dwalin looked at him.

“Who is it that you cannot forgive?” he asked.  “Bilbo or yourself?”  Thorin could only shake his head.  Dwalin squeezed his shoulder briefly.  “It has been long you have wept for them,” he said.  

That night, he found that his feet moved towards Bilbo as the company went to bed.

“I have first watch,” he said.  “Would you sit with me a while?  For I would speak with you.”

Bilbo looked at him long before he nodded, but after his bedroll was laid out amongst the rest, and all settled to their beds, Bilbo came to him by the fire.

They sat in silence for a while.  Thorin had said that he wanted to speak to Bilbo, and he did; only he could not say it.  Finally, he began.

“I loved you,” he said.  “It made the betrayal all the worse.  Before the battle I looked at you, and I thought _he will be mine_ , and then you were not and could never be; and it was by both our hands.”

Bilbo looked out to the stars; he did not speak.

“I did not know that when I told you to go that you would leave entirely,” Thorin continued.  “I did not know that when I told you to leave me that you would leave me for such a span of time.”  He glanced at Bilbo, but Bilbo’s gaze was fixed on the sky.  “I have been bleeding inside since that battle.  I do not think I can heal it.  I do not think it will ever heal.”

And then they sat together, and both watched the stars.  Eventually, Bilbo spoke.

“I loved you too,” was all he said.  “I cannot stop.”

Then he stood and went to his bedroll.  Thorin finished his watch in silence.  It would not.  It would not ever heal.  And yet he could not let go of Bilbo’s words.  _I cannot stop_ , he had said.

The next morning, as they continued the difficult path up the mountain, Thorin found that his eyes still went to Bilbo.  _Nor can I stop_ , he thought.  _In all this time, I have never stopped._  

And as they camped that night in the shadow of the mountain, he knew exactly where Bilbo lay, though it was halfway across the group of dwarves.  In the night his body heated and his mind turned to thoughts of Bilbo’s body held close to his, of mouths moving—he cursed himself.  Still he heard those words.  _I cannot stop_ , he had said.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They enter Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One line here comes directly from Tolkien, and is marked with italics and an asterisk.

 

Bilbo had thought that Thorin could not damage him anymore than he already had, but he drew such truths from him.  He wished he had not told Thorin that he loved him still, that night by the fire.  He wished he did not love him, though he did not know how to end it.  Still he could not stop it but instead flayed himself open for Thorin’s consumption or rejection.  He could not blame the magic that tied them together for this.  It was only he.

He was saddened to see the Desolation that Smaug had wrought; Erebor’s majestic beauty had become bare rock and dust.  Nothing grew; nothing lived; nothing moved but their doomed expedition.  They were somber and quiet as the progressed up the mountainside.  Should Smaug wake and leave the mountain, there was nothing to hide behind.  They could only hope to find shelter inside the mountain itself, wherever the secret door might lead them.  There were many passages in Erebor that Bilbo had never seen.  He hoped Thorin or one of the other dwarves who knew the mountain would recognize the way.  Bilbo knew from experience how easy it was to get lost in Erebor without a guide.

When the time came to enter the mountain, Bilbo sought Thorin’s eyes one last time.  If he went to his death, he would have it acknowledged; and he would look on the visage of this dwarf he loved. 

“I will do my best,” he said.  “Though I do not know exactly what I shall do against a dragon.”

“You must be cautious,” Thorin replied.  “You go now only to spy him out.”  Thorin paused a moment.  “And you do not have permission to travel,” he added.  “We will need our burglar in the coming days.”

He could not read Thorin’s face, but he held his gaze unflinching.  He could not know; he never knew; but he thought that his unpredictable magic would not spirit him away this day.  He had failed at Moria, but he had warned the Lonely Mountain of Smaug’s coming.  He thought it likely he would stay to face the dragon now, though a fearful part of him prayed to travel back to the Shire.  He stepped through the door into the dark passage and slipped his ring onto his finger.

Smaug the braggart, it seemed, had a bare spot on his chest the size of Bilbo’s head.  Unfortunately, Bilbo did not have the angle for the shot; and he feared that should he take aim at Smaug in here, he would be caught up in the dragon’s death throes.  He did not know how he was to force a dragon to leave its nest and circle conveniently above the mountain for his target practice.  His mouth did naught but earn him a singeing; and then when Smaug did leave, it was only to trap them in the mountain for good.  The company seemed to find this a matter for celebration, and lost themselves in the dragon’s hoard.  Bilbo would not stay with the dwarves as they reveled in the gold.  He headed for the main Gate, that he might know when the dragon came back, and take his chance for his shot.

As it turned out, his chance at Smaug’s belly did not come after all; but from his position at the Gate he was the first to see the armies of men and elves approaching.  He felt sick as he ran to find the dwarves.  He felt sicker to find the Arkenstone and tuck it in his pocket, but he did it anyway.  He didn’t like the way this dragon hoard affected the dwarves, especially Thorin.  That damn stone had been the start of this, and he would not give it to Thorin in his condition.

 

***

 

Thorin stood unbelieving, looking at the armies before the Gate of Erebor.  That men might come so; well, he did not expect much of them.  But he had never thought that Thranduil would lay him siege.  And yet, Legolas and some number of elves rode with a small company of men to scout the Gate. 

_“Who are you,” he called in a very loud voice, “that come as if in war to the gates of Thorin son of Thrain, King under the Mountain, and what do you desire?”*_

The men answered nothing; some rode back to their camp while some stayed to observe the defenses of the Gate.  Legolas, however:  he was glad to have been wrong about Legolas.

“Thorin son of Thrain,” he smiled and hailed the Gate, “we thought you dead under this mountain, and all your company too; lost to the dragon.  I am very glad to see we were wrong.”  He motioned to one of the other elves, spoke briefly; and then the elf rode back the way they had come.

“My father will perhaps forgive me now for aiding your escape,” he yelled.  “I estimate it will only be another century or two.”

“By that time I _will_ be dead,” Thorin called down.

“All the worse,” Legolas replied.  “It is sure to be my fault!”  He laughed.  “But have you heard?  The dragon is dead, felled by Bard of Lake-town!  Erebor is yours once more!”

“The ravens brought word, along with word of approaching armies, men and elves both,” Thorin yelled.

“It is an expedition, not an army,” Legolas called back.  He turned and gestured at the host behind him, and paused a moment.  “Granted, it looks much like an army from here.”  He looked at the last of the men who were retreating down the path.  “And I cannot speak for the men,” he said.  “But the wood elves have long been your allies and we come in peace.”

Thorin gestured to Dwalin to throw down the rope ladder.  “Welcome to Erebor,” he called down dryly.  “Mind the step.”

 

***

 

An hour later, they had finally found a room undamaged enough in which they might sit and hold council.  Thorin wondered uneasily where all their time had gone that they had explored no further than the dragon’s treasure rooms, but he could not think on it now.  He must turn his mind to this matter.

“I like it not,” he told the group he had brought for advice:  Legolas, Balin, Dwalin, and reluctantly, Bilbo.  “The men did not come on a rescue mission:  they offered no hail; they scouted our position; I believe they will offer siege.”

Legolas shook his head.  “I tell you, there was no thought that you could be anything but dead,” he said.  “The men may have come to explore the dragon’s vaunted treasure, but we came to search out your bodies for burial.  I believe now that they see you are alive, they will return to Lake-town.”

Thorin scoffed.  “You are naive,” he said.  “On the morrow, we will be besieged.”

Legolas sighed, but he did not argue further.

Balin pursed his lips.  “Have you thought, laddie, on what we will do should they offer siege?  We are only fourteen.”

Dwalin shook his head.  “Fourteen can hold the Gate for a while, brother; it is well-defended.  But we will need food.”

“You truly believe the men come for war,” Legolas said.  Thorin nodded.  Balin and Dwalin looked to each other, then nodded as well.  Bilbo did not answer.

“Then our bows are at your service,” Legolas said.  “I do not think they can hold a siege with an opposing army encamped next to them.”

For the first time, Bilbo spoke.  “You would bear the brunt of the battle,” he said.  “It is much to ask, even of allies.”

“Bilbo is right,” Thorin said.  “I will send Roäc to Dain.  If the men face two armies, they may decide to lay down their arms and retreat to Lake-town.”  He looked up to find that all watched him with poorly concealed surprise on their faces.  Did he heed Bilbo so seldom?  He would not acknowledge their reaction.

“Lake-town suffered greatly from Smaug’s attack before Bard’s arrow brought him down,” Legolas said then.  “Have you considered the aid you may offer them as restitution?”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, but Bilbo joined him.

“There is gold enough to offer them for their rebuilding, and you will never miss it, Thorin,” he said.

“In my experience, men are seldom grateful for aid from dwarves,” Thorin replied.  “I have no desire to try the experiment again, not if it cost only a single coin.”

Balin and Dwalin nodded, but Legolas and Bilbo looked away.  Thorin did not think long on it, however; he would prepare for siege, and he would hunt for the Arkenstone again.  He bid Legolas farewell and departed.

That evening he noted that Bilbo sat watching the fires of the elves with something like yearning on his face.  Thorin went to him.

“Go down to them, then,” he said.  “If you would prefer their company.”

Bilbo turned to look at him.

“I do miss the merriness of the elves,” he said.  “But I was thinking more of their food.  I am mightily sick of _cram_.”

“You have no reason to be fond of dwarves,” Thorin insisted.  Bilbo’s face became puzzled.

“I have every reason to be very fond of dwarves,” he said.  He took a deep breath, and reached out until his hand touched Thorin’s.  “I know you do not forgive me.  I expect nothing.  But I love you, Thorin; I will not leave you while I can stay.”

Thorin crumbled.  He was in Erebor once more, yet he was still so jagged and broken inside, and he was very tired.  He stepped closer to Bilbo, and closer yet, until their foreheads touched.  His hands curled hesitantly at Bilbo’s sides.

“I have lost my father, and my brother, and my best friend, and my love,” he whispered.  “Comfort me.”

“I cannot bring them back,” Bilbo said.  His tone was resigned.

“No,” Thorin said.  “My father and brother are gone forever.”  He dared to press a small kiss to Bilbo’s temple.  “Yet my best friend, my love, sits in front of me; and I have missed him for near 150 years.  I would have his friendship again.”  They stood thus for some time, and then Bilbo tilted his head to nuzzle Thorin’s throat—ahh—so gently he nipped—

“Only friendship?” he asked.

Thorin moaned.  “Not only—“ he gasped.

Bilbo sunk his hands into Thorin’s hair and lifted his mouth to Thorin’s.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under Siege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have borrowed one line from the Tolkien, written in italics and marked with a *.

 

The following morning Thorin found Bilbo gone, but his clothing was gone too; and when he rose to follow, mid-morning brought a surprise as well:  elves, working with his small company, to maneuver shanks of smoked venison up and over the gate.  Thorin smiled to see it, though it _was_ venison, and more to see dwarves and elves working together again.  Bilbo smiled back at him from across the Gate.  The small delegation of men who came forth that morning, on the other hand, did not look happy to see the dwarven food supplies replenished.  A grim-faced man named Bard was their spokesman.  Bard, Thorin recalled, was the name of Smaug’s slayer.  He would listen to such a man, but he did not intend to give up a single piece of what had been so dearly won; and he resented the army at his gates. 

Bard’s proud words and veiled threats did not change his mind, nor could Bilbo’s pleading later that night.

“Lake-town has been destroyed, Thorin,” he said, “and the men lost many lives; and not all of those were warriors prepared for battle.  Legolas has told me of the terrible cost they paid.  Feel you no mercy for them?”

“I did not control the dragon,” Thorin replied.  “I did not send it; I could not stop it.  What has mercy to do with it?”  But Bilbo did not stop there.

“Compassion, then,” he said.  “I cannot believe you have none for them when you know well what it is to lose your home to that beast.”

At that, Thorin’s anger rose.  “If they had come to ask for help, I might offer it; but they came to take what was not theirs; and they came in force.  Do you think they would have stayed their hands if the elves were not present?  For I do not.”  He realised that he shouted, and moderated his voice.  Bilbo could hear reason.  “And I can give nothing before the Arkenstone is found, and the shares divided amongst the company.  There is no share for the men in our contract.”

Bilbo looked at him long but said nothing.  Finally he asked, “You claim the Arkenstone as a share?  A full fourteenth?”

Thorin nodded.  “It is all I have desired,” he said, though he knew he lied.  In the hours he had spent searching the gold, he had seen many treasures lay amongst the dragon’s hoard that he would not give up easily, but the line of Durin had three shares of the treasure.  One could be spent on the Arkenstone. 

Bilbo sighed and took his hand to pull him towards their pallet.  “Come to bed,” he said, his voice soft and low.  “Let me show you what I desire.”  Thorin went, and the next morning when he rose early to search for the Arkenstone again, he found it difficult to leave Bilbo as he lay sleeping.  Still, Bilbo would understand.  He must find the stone.

He was called to the Gate mid-morning to learn that his prediction had come to pass; the men would lay siege until given the gold they demanded; but Thorin would not cater to such greed, and his anger rose again to see them ride armed to offer such threat.  As with him, the company grew implacable in their anger, though Fili and Kili seemed uneasy; and Bilbo was only quiet.  But he had long been King of the dwarves of Erebor, and he was King under the Lonely Mountain once more.  Even if they disagreed, they would obey.  And Roäc brought word that Dain marched at speed; he was only two days away.

But before Dain, Thranduil came.  Thorin would not require Thranduil to climb up into the mountain; he came down to meet him, as did Bilbo.  He was not prepared for Thranduil to strike Bilbo full across the face.  Legolas, who had accompanied Thranduil to the Gate, seemed shocked.  Neither had Thorin ever seen such emotion or loss of control from Thranduil.  Both Legolas and Thorin stepped between Thranduil and Bilbo.

“Shall you strike me as well, Father?” Legolas asked.  “Bilbo did not act alone.”

“I know well whose idea it was,” Thranduil growled—growled!  He spoke directly to Bilbo.  “You sent them to what was almost surely their deaths.”  He seemed to have to bite out the next words.  “He is the son of my heart, dear to me as the sons of my loins.”

“One does not imprison one’s sons,” Bilbo replied steadily.  “This was his choice to make, even should it have been his death.”

Thranduil lunged for Bilbo again and was stopped by Legolas and Thorin.  Then he turned to Thorin and embraced him, as Thorin had never been embraced by him before.

“I am gladdened to see you yet live,” he said.  “And thrive, it seems, King under your Mountain once more.  I have missed having you in Emyn Duir.”  Thorin looked to Legolas, who smiled and shrugged.

“It is not so far to Erebor,” Thorin said.

Thranduil pulled back.  “No, it is not,” he replied, and smiled.  He looked over Thorin’s shoulder to glare at Bilbo once more, then seemed to recover his usual dignity as he turned back to Thorin.  “And you shall always be welcome in the halls of the elfking.”

After Thranduil departed, Thorin resumed his search for the Arkenstone.  He searched through lunch, and would have searched through the evening meal as well had Bilbo not come and insisted he eat.  After, Bilbo would not let him return to his search.  When Thorin asked why, Bilbo smiled sadly at him.

“I have gone without you a long time,” he said.  “And I never know when I will leave or return.  I would gorge myself while I can.”  Bilbo pulled him to the bed, and Thorin went willingly after all.  He too had gone long without Bilbo, and he had been so focused on his gold and Arkenstone that he had forgotten that Bilbo might travel away at any time.

The next day Thorin tried to convince Bilbo to join with him in his hunt.  If his time with Bilbo was limited, he would have as much of it as he could.  But Bilbo would not help.  He only looked sadly at Thorin.  He supposed Bilbo was melancholy to think that their time together might be short, but why then would he not stay with Thorin as he searched?

“There are things that must be done,” he said.  “While you are under siege, will you truly spend your time in this manner?”  Thorin stared at him.  He didn’t see why Bilbo could not understand.

“It means more to me than all else,” he said.  “It must be found.”  Bilbo slowly nodded.

“I see what it means to you,” he said, but he would not stay.  “I will see what may be done about the siege.”  And so he left, and Thorin searched; but he could not find the Arkenstone that day.

And on the morrow, when the men came again, they had both Bilbo and the Arkenstone in their grasp.

“ _That stone was my father’s, and is mine,” he said.*_   He looked at Bilbo, whose face was a mask of guilt, pale in the dawn light.  “I think I need not ask how you came by it.  It seems all thieves are friends.”

Bilbo seemed to find courage to speak at that.  “It has given you the madness of your grandfather,” he angrily called up to the Gate.  “I had hoped that without its influence your sanity might return.  Nevertheless, let it be my share.  I have given it to the men to trade for gold.”

Bard stepped forward to speak at that.  “Will you trade for it?” he asked, but Thorin ignored him.

“You betray me once again,” he told Bilbo, who flinched, and tears began to roll down his face, once so sweet to Thorin.

“I know it,” he answered.  “But I do it out of love.” 

Thorin turned his attention to Bard.  “Bring it on the morrow,” he said.  On the morrow, Dain would arrive.  On the morrow, they should see.

“Our need is dire now,” Bard said.

“The thief’s share must be counted out,” Thorin replied.  “Will you return the stone today on the promise of gold tomorrow?”

Bard shook his head.  “I will not,” he said.  He looked at Bilbo, and then back at Thorin.  “We return tomorrow at noon.”

“Take the halfling with you,” Thorin said.  “He returns to this mountain on pain of death.” 

Bard rode away, but Bilbo would not go with him, nor did he turn away from Thorin.

“I go to the wood elves,” he said.

“Go then,” Thorin replied,  “if you will not leave entirely.”

Bilbo’s tears fell afresh.  “I will not leave you again if I can help it,” he said.

“And yet, you have,” Thorin said, and turned away from the Gate.  The company, he noted, stood witness.  None spoke, though Fili and Kili clutched each other’s hands and cried.  He would not guess whose actions appalled the others more.

That night, Bilbo came to him as a young child, and his heart broke anew.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Five Armies.

 

Thranduil had not been happy to see Bilbo, but had not sent him back to the men of Lake-town.  Bilbo thought it might only have been because of the arguments of Legolas.

“You did not hear him, Father,” he told Thranduil.  “He is not himself, not entirely.”  He looked to Bilbo.  “Though this was a mad scheme,” he told him.  “I do not know that he will forgive you.”

“I know he will not,” Bilbo replied, and his tears began to fall again.  He thought that even Thranduil might have looked at him with pity.

Bilbo cried bitter tears that night until he had no more tears to cry.  He did not wish to return to the Shire, but he thought longingly of going to a time when Thorin had loved him without any pain between them.  They had not had much of that, he thought.

He could not go to the mountain where he was no longer welcome, so he had not gone with Bard to the noon exchange.  The first he heard of Dain’s arrival was when the elves were called to council with the men and dwarves both.  Gandalf was there, and he embraced Bilbo.

“You have been very brave,” he said.  Bilbo closed his eyes and clung to Gandalf’s comfort.  He could not reply.

As Gandalf warned of the approaching danger, Bilbo could not care for orcs or wargs.  He nodded absently when Legolas offered him a place with the elven archers.  His thoughts were all for the mountain.  Finally Legolas shook him gently.

“You cannot go into battle thus,” he chided.  “You will be a danger to yourself and to others.”  He looked in Bilbo’s eyes.  “Are you able to set aside your woes for this time?  If not, you should stay in the camp with the healers.”

Bilbo would not stay behind.  “I will do it,” he said.  “I know I must.” 

Legolas smiled at him.  “I will find a box for you to stand on, that you might stand equal to our archers.”

Bilbo hit his arm.

The Battle of Five Armies was both like and unlike the battle of Azanulbizar.  Bilbo shot now with a group, and did not pick off individual targets so much as fire into the great mass that flowed into the valley.  After a while, they could not fire for fear of hitting one of their own.  But the chaos and the terror remained the same, and the worry for his comrades.  And when Bilbo saw Thorin leap from the mountain gate and call his rallying call, he slung his bow upon his back and drew his sword.  If he died this day, he would do it with his love.  Many of the elves came with him, including, Bilbo noted with surprise, Thranduil.  As they neared the orcish mass, Bilbo slipped on his ring.  He chanced to meet Thranduil’s eye as he did, and almost laughed to see his face.  Thranduil must have thought he travelled.  He followed in Thranduil’s wake as the elves cut their way to the dwarven company, and Dain’s dwarves came down the opposite side of the valley.  At some point, however, he was jostled aside, and must try his best not to be trampled by friend and foe alike.

“Durin!” he heard Thorin’s voice call out, and dwarven voices take up the call.  He worked his way steadily towards the sound of that call.  When he came close enough, he faltered at seeing what lay before him.  Fili and Kili both were cut down and did not move, and across an expanse that had opened around them, Thorin and Azog faced each other.  Another orc, nearly Azog’s size and just as pale, cut a path to Azog’s side, clearly ready to take up battle should Azog fall; and on the other side came Thranduil, ready to do the same for Thorin.  Yet the battle raged; and each must turn and deal with a foe here and again, so they had not reached their sides as yet.  Thorin scored a deep slash across Azog’s arm on his left, where he had lost an eye to Bilbo’s arrow those many years ago; the second orc swept aside the man he fought and ran to Azog’s side.  Thranduil came to meet him, and with a mighty clash of arms they engaged.

But Bilbo would not merely watch; and he knew what he was good at.  He crept carefully around the edge of the furious battle, and when he could, leapt forward and slashed at Azog as he had at the troll years ago.  Azog bellowed in pain and missed his strike; and listed, though he did not fall; but Thorin’s blade hesitated for an instant as well.  The idiot!

“STRIKE, THORIN!” Bilbo cried out, and Thorin did, but though now Azog went down to his knees, yet he parried Thorin’s blade.  And Bilbo felt a great pain in his side, and he could not stand either.  He looked, and the pale orc that fought with Azog had swept back his sword in fury to see Azog collapse.  He did not know to aim for Bilbo, but his wide slash had brought him down all the same.  His distraction was all Thranduil needed, however; and an instant later his head went flying and Thranduil went to Thorin’s aid.

Bilbo knelt, his hand held to his side, and knew he met his death.  Thorin, though, Thorin would live.  He heard voices cry, “The eagles!  The eagles are coming!” and the orcs began to flee; but Bilbo’s strength was gone, and the ring was yet on his finger.  He tried to crawl to Fili and Kili, but he could not; instead he collapsed where he was.  _I must remove the ring_ , he thought.  As if from a distance, he heard Thorin ask Thranduil about him.

“I heard his voice in the fray,” Thorin said.

“He came to our camp,” Thranduil replied, “and came into battle with us; but he travelled at the instant we charged.”

Thorin was insistent.  “You saw him go?” he asked.

“I did,” Thranduil replied.  “He was there and then he was not.”  Bilbo did not hear Thorin’s voice for a while.  He closed his eyes.  His hands slick with his own blood, he could not work the ring from his finger.  Then he heard Thorin’s voice again.

“Look here,” he said.  His voice was panicked.  Why did he panic?  The battle was over.  “Azog was hamstrung, and I saw no one do it.  It was Bilbo, and he was wearing his ring.  He wears it still.”

“His ring?” Thranduil asked.  Their voices grew louder.

“He has a ring which makes him invisible when he wears it,” Thorin replied.  “If you did not see his clothes and his weapons drop to the ground, he did not travel; he put on his ring.”

Thranduil spoke slowly.  “I do not think I did,” he said.

“No,” said Thorin.  “No.  Bilbo!” he called.  “Bilbo!” His voice was frantic.

“Here,” Bilbo tried to say, but his voice would not work.  “Here.”  He worked at his ring.  “I am here!” he tried, and his voice was a bit louder.  Still no one heard, and Bilbo felt the last of his strength go; but finally the ring slipped from his finger.

“Bilbo!” he heard, and then he heard no more.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle has ended.

 

First there was sound, and then light.  Bilbo lay on his back, and his side burned; and someone moved around him.  He tried to open his eyes, but all was blurry.  He blinked to clear his eyes.

“Where—“ he tried.  There was a flurry of movement.

“He wakes,” he heard, and the light brightened for a moment as the tent flap lifted.

Someone came quietly to his side; an elf, he saw, though one he did not know. 

“Are you in pain?” she asked.  He nodded, and she gave him a draught, and the pain dulled, and soon he drifted off to slumber again.

When he woke again, Thorin sat by his side.  He had been wounded as well, for his forearm was bandaged, and he bore a contusion on his cheek.  Still, he lived.  Bilbo felt lighter at the thought.

“Fili?  Kili?” he managed to ask.

Thorin nodded, but did not speak.  Bilbo could lift his head, but his attempt to sit was quickly aborted.  The pain was too much.

“The rest?” he asked.

Again, Thorin nodded.

Bilbo lay back and closed his eyes.  “Good,” he murmured.  He thought he heard weeping.

“Thorin?” he asked.  After a moment, Thorin spoke, though his voice was hoarse.

“I am here,” he said.

“It hurts,” Bilbo said.  He swallowed.  “Water?” he asked.  He felt a gentle hand at his nape.

“You must lift your head,” Thorin said.  Bilbo did, and Thorin’s hand supported his head while the other brought a cup to Bilbo’s lips.  He managed a few sips, then let his head fall.  Thorin gently laid his head down, and his hand moved to stroke the hair away from Bilbo’s temple.

“Do I die?” he asked, though he felt detached, curious rather than afraid. 

Bilbo did hear a sob then; he was sure.

“You must not,” Thorin said.  “You are yet tied to me; remember.  You _must_ stay.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo asked.  “Do you cry?”

“No,” Thorin answered, but his voice was thick.

“You do,” Bilbo disagreed.  He felt his hand lifted and held to Thorin’s lips.  After a moment, he spoke.

“Perhaps a little,” he said.  They sat quiet for a while.  Then, “Do not leave me, Bilbo,” Thorin said.  “I am selfish, and I am a fool, and I have been cruel to you; yet I ask it:  please do not leave me.”

Bilbo grew weary.  For a time he did not answer, then he remembered that Thorin waited.

“If I can stay, I will,” Bilbo said.  “But I cannot promise it.”  He grew so weary, and his pain was great.  “It hurts, Thorin,” he said.  He let himself drift away into sleep, though his sleep was fitful.  The pain would not let him sleep deep.

He woke when the pain in his side roared at him, and was given his draught, and drifted off again.  He did not know how long it lasted like that.  When he woke, it was never for long; but a member of the company was always with him; it was usually Thorin, though not always; and he never saw Fili or Kili.  Legolas also came to see him often, and he thought even Thranduil, once.  Thranduil whispered to him when the healer was occupied at the other end of the tent.

“Do not die, hobbit,” he said.  “And do not travel now, lest you do.”

“I cannot help it if I do,” Bilbo said.  “I have never been able to control it.”

“Nevertheless,” Thranduil replied.  “Do not.”

But he thought he might have hallucinated that, for Thranduil never came again.

And then he woke, and his side throbbed, but it did not burn as it had before.  Legolas sat by his side.  He smiled at Bilbo. 

“One moment,” he said, and stepped out of the tent, then came back.  It was not long before the healer came and pushed him out of the way, but he waited patiently by the tent wall until she was finished checking Bilbo’s wound. 

When she was gone again, Legolas sat down by Bilbo’s side once more.

“I have learned quickly that they are ruthless,” he said.  “It is best to stay out of the healer’s way, lest one be cut down.”

“And you in your prime,” Bilbo joked weakly, but Legolas gave his merry laugh.

“And I in my prime,” he agreed.  “It is good to see you wake, Bilbo.”

“It is good to be awake, I think,” Bilbo said.  “How fare the others?”

“All well,” Legolas said, but there was something in his eyes.

“Fili?  Kili?” Bilbo asked.  “I have not seen them.”

Legolas sighed.  “They survive,” he said.  “They will live.”

“And?” Bilbo prompted.

“Kili was in danger for a time; like you, his wounds became infected,” Legolas replied.  “But now he heals well, though he cannot yet leave his bed.”  Bilbo waited, but he added nothing else.

“And Fili?”  Bilbo asked again.  “You scare me.”

“Fili may not walk again,” Legolas said reluctantly.  “The healers do not yet say they know it, but he cannot feel his legs.”

Oh, Fili!  Bilbo could not imagine that active young dwarf not moving. 

“Do they say when they will know?” he asked.

Legolas shook his head.  “They only say we must wait.”

Bilbo looked around.  “Where has my healer gone?” he asked.  “I would like to know when I might leave my bed.  I want to see them.”

Legolas nodded, and squeezed his hand.  “I will ask,” he said.  “I am glad you wake, Bilbo.  We have all been worried about you.”  He left the tent, but soon returned with the healer.

She sighed to see him attempting to sit.  Motioning Legolas to one side, she moved to the other, and they helped prop him up.

“Today and tomorrow you may sit like this,” she said,  “and then a bit more each day following.  If that goes well, you may begin to try to stand; and walk short distances, a bit longer every day.  Do not push too far, or you will find you lose ground rather than gain it.”  She turned to Legolas.  “No more than two visitors at a time,” she said.

Legolas grinned.  “I will try my best.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “You will ensure it, Legolas Greenleaf; or you will be banned yourself and I will find another to enforce these rules.”  Chastened, Legolas nodded, and the healer left again.

Jokingly Legolas girded his loins.  “It may mean my life, but I will try to hold back the hordes of dwarves that will soon descend upon us.”

Bilbo laughed; but weakly, as it made his side hurt more.  “Oh,” he moaned.  “Do not make me laugh.”  Legolas merely smiled wider.

 

***

 

Bilbo believed Legolas tried, but the company came thick and fast to see him, all save the line of Durin.  Bilbo had hoped Thorin might return; but perhaps he was too busy.  Perhaps his visit had been but a fever dream.  But then one day Bilbo slept restlessly, and woke in the night; and Thorin was there, sleeping on a pallet by the side of his bed.  He watched Thorin’s face, young and peaceful in sleep—his long eyelashes, the sweep of his brow, the shape of his jaw; and he wondered how often Thorin had slept thus, and if he would ever come again in daylight.  He fell asleep that way.  In the morning when he woke Thorin was gone.

He pushed now, to walk farther than he had; and he must have recovered enough that the healer encouraged him, for he was given permission to try to visit Fili and Kili with Legolas’ help.  It was not an easy trek, but Bilbo was determined; and one cold winter morning they did it.  His task was made easier as Fili and Kili were housed together; Bilbo supposed each would fret without the other near; and as Legolas raised the tent flap that he might enter, he discovered that Thorin sat within the tent as well.  Legolas whispered that he would wait outside, and withdrew.

All three Durins sat, in fact, around a small circular table, with what appeared to be a picture or diagram in front of them; but Bilbo did not see, for as he entered, Fili leaned forward and whipped the paper away quickly, but upon seeing it was Bilbo, Fili slowly replaced it on the table.  Kili and Thorin stood, and all three smiled.

“Bilbo,” Kili cried.  “I have been remiss, and now you have come to me.  I would feel shame but that I feel so lucky!”  Carefully he embraced Bilbo without knocking his crutches.

Fili smiled and nodded.  “It is good to see you, Bilbo; but you must come to me.  We shall see how well we two cripples manage.”  Bilbo looked at him, but maneuvered closer, that he might drop into the seat next to Fili’s.  He placed his hand on Fili’s shoulder, and looked at the diagram on the table.  It seemed to be a chair with wheels.

“I think we shall manage very well indeed,” he replied.  “I, too, am glad to see you.”  He looked to Thorin.  “And you as well, King under the Mountain.”  Thorin fidgeted—yes, fidgeted! —and bowed slightly to Bilbo. 

“Bilbo,” he said.

“I have been very bored in my tent so far away from here,” Bilbo said.  “Tell me what you do, and if the healers here are great bullies as well.”  Any remaining discomfort fell away, and they visited until lunchtime, when Bilbo was shooed back to his own tent. 

As he left the tent, he paused briefly.

“Thorin,” he said.  “Perhaps you might begin to visit in the daylight as well.”  Kili whooped, and Fili laughed; and with some satisfaction, Bilbo noted Thorin’s cheeks grow scarlet as he turned to go.  “Farewell,” he called out.  “I will return as soon as I am able.”

That evening, Thorin came to his tent before Bilbo slept.  He entered abashedly, and stood by Bilbo’s bed.  Bilbo sat up to look at him. 

“I fell into gold sickness,” said Thorin, “and I wronged you.”  Bilbo shook his head.

“Yes, you had the gold sickness,” he said, “but you were always clear with me about what you sought.  I was the one who deceived you.” 

Thorin sat then.  For a long time they sat in silence.  Finally, Thorin spoke.

“When I thought you died, the madness lifted, and I did not care what you had done, nor for any gold, nor for the Arkenstone; I only knew—“  He hung his head.  Bilbo looked at him.

“It may come back,” Bilbo said.  Thorin nodded.

“I would do it again,” Bilbo added.  Thorin lifted his head angrily, but then he saw something in Bilbo’s face, and nodded again, slowly.

“If I say you are not rational, do you think you can listen?  Do you trust me enough to listen to me, even in the midst of it?” Bilbo asked.

“I do not know,” Thorin replied.  “I thought I was rational then.”  He looked at down at his hands and drew a great breath, then met Bilbo’s eyes and took Bilbo’s hands in his.

“I love you still,” he said.  “I think that if I can love you through the past that we have had, I will never stop loving you.  So I will, I hope, listen to what you say.”

Bilbo felt something heal inside, and he smiled. 

“Then let us start again,” he said.  “With no terrible past between us, only the two of us here, may we begin anew?”  Thorin nodded, a faint smile beginning on his lips.  Bilbo leaned forward.

“I have known you since your birth, and I have been your friend since we were young children, and I have wanted you since I first saw you again, fully grown, after our years apart,” he said, “and I have loved you the whole time, and that love has but grown.”  Thorin’s smile grew, and then his lips touched Bilbo’s so gently, and they smiled together like that until they must lie down to rest.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold Beads and a Gold Ring.

 

Some five years after his return to the mountain, Thorin had Bilbo spread open beneath him when Bilbo disappeared for the first time in all of those five years.  Thorin disconsolately gathered up the gold beads that Bilbo had left behind.  _It was a lot more fun on the other end_ , he thought.  But the next day, Bilbo was back, and melancholy.  Thorin gathered him into his arms.

“I left you so unhappy,” he murmured into Thorin’s shoulder.  “So unhappy.”

“No, Bilbo,” Thorin replied.  “I hated all then, but that night was a gift I did not deserve, and I kept it secret to my chest.  You gave me love when I was desperate.”

Bilbo shook his head and would not look up.  Thorin lowered his voice.

“Shall I show you, Bilbo, what a foolish creature I am?”  His hands moved down Bilbo’s back.  “For I am desperate now—desperate and jealous of my own self.”  His hands moved further still, and then to Bilbo’s thighs, and then he lifted, so that Bilbo’s legs might wrap around his waist, and his arms around Thorin’s neck.  “I think it was like this...” he said, “and I remember you said, ‘ _fuck me, please_ ,’—Mahal, I could not forget that; and then you taunted me; do you remember what you said?”  Bilbo nodded, a small smile on his lips.

“For me it was yesterday,” he reminded Thorin.

“Say it,” Thorin murmured in his ear.

“Shall I tell you what the dwarf I was with when I came to you was doing to me?” Bilbo asked.  Thorin growled.

“The rest,” he said.

“I lost nothing when I came to you but the gold beads in my hair,” Bilbo teased.

Thorin tossed him on the bed and followed him in.  Bilbo’s laugh was high and merry, and then his gasps were sweet to Thorin’s ears.

 

***

 

As they grew older, Bilbo journeyed still, but his time away was usually short.  He never went to the Shire anymore, he said, only to Thorin and back.  So neither had any way to know of Drogo and Primula’s death until Gandalf brought word in late 2980.  Nothing would stop Bilbo from going to see their young son Frodo then, though he was nearly ninety years old.

“There are closer relations,” he said, “but he was an only child, as I was; and I know well what it is to be lost in the hordes of Tooks—Brandybucks, in his case.”  He hesitated.  “If you agree, Thorin.  And if he does.”

Thorin held Bilbo close and kissed his temple.  “Will it make you happy if he comes?”

Bilbo nodded.

“Then I would come with you myself if I could.  As it is, I had best send Kili with you and Gandalf.  Should hobbitnapping be necessary, he will be just the dwarf.”

Bilbo was gone to the Shire almost a year, and though he said he travelled, he came only once to Thorin in this time.  He said that Frodo did spend more and more of his time with them at Bag End.

“I think if it were a matter of moving into Bag End with me, Frodo should be here with his bags within the month.  We get on well, and Brandybuck Hall is a boisterous place for a fauntling who has lost his parents less than a year ago.  He is lost and overwhelmed in that rowdy madness.”  He smiled sadly at Thorin.  “But I think it is another thing to leave the Shire entirely.  I am not sure if he will.”

“You love him as a son already,” Thorin said.

“Each day he breaks my heart and mends it anew,” Bilbo agreed.

In the end, Frodo did come; and as Bilbo had when a child, he conquered those around him without trying, without knowing he did it.  He was a serious and shy child, Thorin thought; and then he witnessed Frodo playing with Kili, and realised he was simply subdued around those he did not know well.  Thorin complained to Bilbo, and determined that he would become one of those Frodo trusted enough to be open and happy with.

Bilbo laughed at his pronouncement.  “When you decide something will be so, Thorin, then you will reshape Middle Earth before you give up.  I do not believe one small hobbit will be able to resist.” 

Thorin was pleased to hear him say it, and more pleased to coax a smile from Frodo shortly thereafter.  Frodo brought life to the mountain, and grew to be a confident and happy hobbit, perhaps, like Bilbo, with a few dwarfish habits, like braids in his hair.  It was hard to send him as Ring bearer to the Fellowship, and harder yet to see him return.  He was himself, yet he was changed; and often he hid away.  Bilbo felt desperately guilty, and cried for days to see him go to the ships in the West.

“I brought that cursed Ring into our lives,” he cried.  “Frodo should be safe and happy without it!”

Thorin held him tight.  “Perhaps it is so,” he said.  “But Frodo made his choice, and you told me long ago that we must be free to choose—even should we choose to go to our deaths or destruction.  Do not take that from him.  He made a hero’s choice.”  Bilbo’s sobs did not cease.

“I would I could have carried his burden instead,” he said.  “I am an old hobbit at the end of his days.  Frodo is so young!”

Thorin could only hold him as he cried.


	23. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the End.

 

For more than fifty years they had been happy, and Thorin had long been confident that Bilbo should always return to him; but as Bilbo’s one hundred eleventh year approached, he worried.  Bilbo would not grieve, only say eleventy-eleven was a goodly age for a hobbit.  Bilbo was very old for a hobbit; it was true; and Thorin was no young dwarf, but he could feel that day of Bilbo’s warning ever looming.  One day when Bilbo left him, he would come back grievously injured; likely, it would be the day of his death.  And then that day came.

When Bilbo disappeared at breakfast, Thorin sat across from him.  One moment, they laughed together; the next, the chair across from him was empty.  Thorin sat still for a moment, then hurried to call for Oin’s successor.  If Bilbo could be saved when he returned, it would be better to have a healer standing by.  But Bilbo returned after only minutes, and the page had not yet returned with the healer.  As Thorin had remembered, he bled alarmingly from the nose and his ears, and he could not stand.

“Bilbo!” Thorin cried, and ran to hold him up.

“Not—the end—“ Bilbo said, and smiled at him.  “My Thorin.”  And then he died.

Thorin knew not what he did in those next days of mourning.  He did not care for the throne of his people, but left it all to Fili.  Some days he spent in their rooms and would not leave their bed.  Those were the bad days.  On better days he walked out to the high archery range, where Bilbo had come to him on the last day of his life.  It was seldom used; as ever, dwarves cared more for their axes than for bows.  It was perhaps a month later when Thorin stood at the range, looking down across the valley.  As always, he wished that Bilbo were there; and then he was, as he had been at about eighty, when his hair had finally gone entirely white.

“My Thorin,” he said.  “You have always been prone to this despondency.  Do you still mourn me?”  Thorin only clasped him in his arms.

“You died,” was all he could say.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked.

“You knew,” Thorin accused gently.  “You knew and you did not tell me.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo.  “That was cruel.  Well.  I shall try.”  Thorin laughed through his tears.

“I think perhaps you did try, and I was a fool who did not understand you,” he said.  “My Bilbo.”

“This is the first time, then, since my death?” Bilbo guessed.  Thorin nodded into his hair.

“I can tell you this much, Thorin Oakenshield:  you are not shut of me yet.  You have told me yourself; our fates are tied.  I plan to be with you until your death, as you have been with me until mine.”  Then Bilbo kissed him, as Thorin’s heart lifted to the heights of the mountain. 

And as he promised, he was with Thorin at the end.  Fili and Kili cried by his deathbed, he knew, and their children; but Bilbo held his hand, and he was content to have it so.  From the beginning to the end, Bilbo had been with him; and if sometimes he had gone, he had always come back; and he was here now.  It was a strange magic that had tied them together, and at times he had thought it a curse; but it was a gift—a gift to have had his Bilbo by his side.

“Now is the end,” he managed to tell Bilbo.  Bilbo kissed his brow.

“It is not the end,” he replied.  “I will see you again soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](http://salviag.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Before I Take My Flesh Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756472) by [Orig1n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orig1n/pseuds/Orig1n)




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